


you’ll never find another (like me)

by KyloTrashForever



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alter Ego Kylo Ren, Ben Gives Skincare Advice, Ben Grinds His Own Coffee, Ben Pushes Rey’s Buttons, But Can’t Stand Ben Solo, But He Wants To Push Her BUTTONS, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Enemies to Lovers, Expensive Sweatpant Hard-Ons, F/M, Mention of pregnancy in epilogue, Neighbors, Rey Admires Kylo Ren, Semi-Public Sex, Shenanigans, Typewriters Are The Purest Way To Write, Writer Ben Solo, hipster ben solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-04-07 12:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19085020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyloTrashForever/pseuds/KyloTrashForever
Summary: She’s going to rant at the damnedtypewriterif she gets the chance. She might even type up her three point essay on why her neighbor is a pain in her ass.Then the door opens.She can’t remember what she was going to say. She can hardly remember why she’shere. She tears her eyes away from eye level (because yes, his chest is eye level— he’s sotall), and forces her gaze to his eyes instead.Not much better.Then she remembers. Why she’s here. The typewriter—focus on the typewriter and not his mouth.In which Rey’s not-so-pretentious neighbor and his typewriter from hell keep her up at night— and shedefinitelydoesn’t find him attractive.





	1. I Know That I’m A Handful, Baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fettuccine_alfreylo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fettuccine_alfreylo/gifts).



> Me, a known liar: “Totally not going to do anymore multi-chapters after Imprints.”
> 
> _nervous fake laughter_
> 
> Work and chapter titles from [this amazing song](https://youtu.be/FuXNumBwDOM).
> 
> Gifted to the sweet enabler who slid me this prompt that I adore! 😍

* * *

_Clack Clack Clack Ding!_

Rey stares up at her ceiling and wishes she were dead—or rather, that her _neighbor_ was.

Okay, that’s a little extreme.

But a glance at her wall clock informs her it’s after one in the morning. If she were to check the alarms on her phone it would confirm she has to be up just after six. She _should_ be sleeping— but sleep is impossible with the incessant _clack clack ding_ -ing that drifts through her bedroom wall, and for all intents and purposes might as well be _directly_ next to her ear.

Two weeks.

She’s suffered this nonsense nearly every night for _two weeks._

She’d busted her ass for a _year_ to avoid moving out of her crummy apartment in the Bronx— and she’d even _celebrated_ moving into this one bedroom in Williamsburg.

She couldn’t have known that the walls were entirely too thin, or that her neighbor was some sort of psychotic ghost with a typewriter.

Really, who uses a _typewriter_ in this day and age? That fact alone sort of makes her hate her neighbor just a little bit more.

_Clack Clack Clack Ding!_

This is ridiculous.

She sits up in bed and presses her ear to the wall— something that does nothing but irritate her further because _what_ could be so _profound_ after one in the morning that it needs to be recorded with such a pretentious bit of machinery.

_Clack Clack Clack Ding!_

That’s it. That is _it._

She tosses her covers from the bed— swinging her legs over the side and grabbing for her robe as she angrily thrusts it on and ties the belt with too much enthusiasm.

She’s going to march over there and give them a piece of her mind. She pays too much money for this damn place and she will _not_ miss out on sleeping ever again because someone on the other side of her bedroom seems to think they’re the next Tolstoy.

She’s still very much fueled by blind irritation when she stomps out of her apartment— and even more so when she pounds on her neighbor’s door. She’s got all sorts of angry words running through her head while she waits— arms crossed and foot tapping— and she is prepared to deliver every single one.

She’s going to rant at the damned _typewriter_ if they let her. She might even type up her three point essay on why her neighbor is a pain in her ass.

Yes, she’s going to give them a piece of her mind. She’s going to—

Then the door opens.

She can’t remember what she was going to say. She can hardly remember why she’s _here._ She’d had a neatly lined argument and relevant plot points but the only word that comes out of her mouth (and in a horribly breathy voice she might add) is:

“Chest.”

He cocks an eyebrow, looking irritated. “Excuse me?”

 _Did she just say_ chest?

She feels a blush creeping up her neck. To be fair— it is… a _very_ nice chest he has. She would know — she can see every inch of it as he stands there in his doorway in nothing but his low-slung pajama bottoms.

She tears her eyes away from eye level (because yes, his chest is eye level— he’s so _tall),_ and forces her gaze to his eyes instead.

Not much better.

His hair is too long but it just— sort of _works?_ Not to mention his mouth. Good God, his _mouth._ Even his nose somehow works for him. Straight and patrician and perched just beneath two honeyed orbs that would be easy to get lost in were they not currently looking down that regal nose of his at _her_ in irritation.

Then she remembers. Why she’s here. The typewriter— _focus on the typewriter and not his mouth._

“No,” she corrects vehemently— trying to gather her earlier anger. “What I meant was— you have _got_ to cut it out with the typewriter.”

He frowns. “Excuse me?”

Is that really all he can say?

“The typewriter,” she repeats. “My bedroom is right on the other side of it. It’s been keeping me awake for weeks.”

He furrows his brow. “I don’t see how this is my problem.”

“How this is your…” Her mouth falls open as she trails off because what a _dick._ “It’s _completely_ your problem! It’s rude and I might add— completely unnecessary. A typewriter? Really? How have you not invested in a laptop like a normal human being?”

“I like to feel a physical connection to my writing,” he tosses back— shrugging as if he hasn’t just said something completely douchey. “It’s a much purer way to write. Plus,” he adds, “I find it relaxes me.”

“Oh, well _bully_ for you,” she seethes. “I haven’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since I moved in.”

His face remains passive, save for the slight furrow in his brow— but then he reaches to scratch at his neck. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you. I have a deadline to meet. Maybe you just learn to ignore it?”

“Learn to ignore… are you _always_ so pretentious?”

“Pretentious?” He laughs a little at this. “Hardly. That would imply I am trying to impress you— which I assure you, I am not.”

Her mouth falls open— scrambling for something to say amidst the pure _outrage_ he instills in her— but apparently he’s grown bored of this.

He yawns a little— rubbing a hand (a ridiculously _large_ hand she might add) over his chest. “I need to get back to work— you’re sort of interrupting me here. My deadline is tomorrow, so if anything I probably won’t be writing tomorrow night. Maybe you can stop bothering me and go to sleep then.”

He moves to go— having every intention of shutting the door in her still-shocked face— but halts for a moment as he studies her features.

“You may want to look into a rose water and whole milk blend— it will really help with those dark circles under your eyes. They look really puffy.”

He shuts the door then— leaving her a vacant mess of emotion because this did _not_ go how she thought it would. She’s somehow too stunned to even feel her anger now— still at a loss as to what just happened but sure of one thing at least.

She _absolutely_ does sort of wish her neighbor was dead.

* * *

Rose sits a cup of coffee in front of her— the sound causing Rey to look up over the edge of her magazine with a grateful expression.

“Bless you,” she greets.

Rose shrugs. “You look like you need it. Still not sleeping?”

Rey blows out a breath. “Thankfully the last two nights have been quiet— but still. My body hasn’t seemed to have caught up yet.”

“I can’t believe he gave you _skincare_ advice,” Rose laughs.

Rey rolls her eyes. “I can’t believe it _worked.”_

“Oh my God.” Rose is cackling now. “You _tried_ it?”

“Well!” Rey sets her magazine against the table with her page marked. “I was curious. Of course the bastard was right.”

Rose narrows her eyes as she studies. “Yeah, now that you mention it you do look like less of a ghost now.”

“Okay, but if my neighbor and his damned typewriter had let me _sleep_ I might not have gotten them in the first place.”

“That’s fair. Maybe you should fashion him up a strongly-worded letter on your printing press. Really up the stakes.”

“Yes.” Rey nods. “And then I’ll drag out my loom and fashion him a motherfucking shirt while I’m at it.”

“Was he that good looking?”

“Rose, it _hurts_ me how good he looked. Especially since he’s a pretentious tool. Or rather— _not_ pretentious— since he so kindly informed me he was most certainly _not_ trying to impress me.”

Rose bursts out laughing. “God, what a prick.”

“You’re telling me,” Rey snorts. She picks up her magazine and turns back to the article she’d been reading as she takes a sip of coffee. “Lucky me to get to live right next door to _that_.”

Rose hooks a finger over the top of her copy of _Time_ and frowns. “Tell me you aren’t still reading that article.”

Rey clicks her tongue. “It’s amazing.”

“What’s it called? Feedback on the Lame?”

“ _Commentary on the Mundane.”_ Rey rolls her eyes. “And you very well know that.”

Rose takes a sip from her cup. “I don’t know how you can stand to read that every week. I couldn’t even get through one paragraph. That guy— what’s his name?”

“ _Kylo Ren,”_ Rey huffs.

“Right.” Rose nods in affirmation. “That guy has got a pretty depressing outlook on life.”

“I think he’s brilliant,” Rey hmphs. “He really captures the human experience.”

“Yes, if the human experience is to be promptly put to sleep. Certainly.”

“Oh, shut up. You just haven’t given it a proper chance. Really, it’s actually—”

“Boring.”

Rey blows out a frustrated breath. “I was going to say enlightening.”

“I think you’ve got a crush on the guy,” Rose teases.

“Hardly,” Rey scoffs. “I don’t even know what he looks like. I just admire his writing. It really gets me thinking.”

“It gets me thinking I need a nap.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Rose grins wickedly as she takes another sip. “Anyway, how are you doing on the Starkiller project?”

“It’s… coming,” Rey sighs. “A bit of red tape with the permits.”

“Of course— and on your first big project.”

Rey nods. “Of course.”

“At least Poe is there to help you out— he’s been lead architect on a dozen projects now.”

“Yes, thank God. Between holding my hand through this process and helping me get my apartment I really owe him.” She thinks back to her ridiculous neighbor with the chest that could have its own orbit and the mouth that makes her want to punch something. “Well, at least for one of those things. The jury is still out on the apartment.”

“It’s got to get better, right?”

Rey shrugs as she thumbs back to her spot to resume her reading. “Maybe. I guess we’ll see.”

* * *

She steps off the elevator far later than she’d originally wished— having stayed late at the office with Poe to go over the project proposals and try to figure out their issues with the permit situation. She thinks perhaps they might have found _some_ sort of solution— but it will take a some double checking tomorrow to be sure.

But that’s tomorrow.

Tonight Rey is only worried about one thing, and that is her bed. She’s praying to all things holy that her neighbor will have another night off from his frantic late night typing— wishing for nothing more than to sink between her sheets and remain there until morning.

She’s just turning the corner to move for her front door when she spots the one just beside drawing open— seeing _him_ step out quickly to lock it behind him.

She’s struck for a moment by the sight of him in _clothes—_ wearing nothing like what she would have pictured. Or actually, maybe she _could_ have picture him in a mustard yellow cardigan and chestnut brown fedora if she’d _really_ tried.

Of _course_ that’s the sort of thing he would wear.

She snorts in irritation as she pushes down the hall— determined not to speak to him but finding quickly that he has other plans.

“Hey,” he calls. “You’re that girl.”

She stills just past him— heaving out a sigh. She turns, cocking an eyebrow and pressing a fist to her hip. “It’s Rey, actually. Rey Johnson.”

“You’re new here, right?”

She nods. “Yes. Moved in two weeks ago.”

He points to himself. “Ben. Ben Solo.”

“Fantastic.” It’s very hard to keep her irritation with him from seeping into her tone. “Anyway… have a goodnight.”

“Did you try the rose water?”

She feels heat at her collar, and she turns her face so she doesn’t have to look him in the eye. “Of course I didn’t.”

A quick glance back reveals narrowed eyes as he regards her curiously. “Your eyes look less puffy.”

She feels her anger creeping back up then. “The only reason I _had_ puffy eyes and dark circles is because some _psycho_ kept me up for all hours of the night on a centuries old piece of technology because it’s a _purer way to write.”_

He raises an eyebrow— his mouth quirking at the corners as if she is amusing him. “I stand by that.”

“Of course you do,” she scoffs.

“Well you’ll be pleased to know I’m going out tonight— so get all the sleep you want.”

“How very _gracious_ of you.”

Why the fuck is he still grinning like that? Is he making fun of her? It only makes her angrier.

He shrugs finally. “Yeah. Anyway— I’m glad the blend helped your eyes.”

He turns to go— and she stamps her foot a little without even meaning to. “I did _not_ try your stupid blend!”

He waves a hand over his head without even looking back. “Whatever you say.”

She pushes into her apartment with too much force— tossing her keys on the counter and letting out an enraged sound because what _is_ it about her neighbor that gets her so hot under the collar? And why does he have to be as _attractive_ as he is _irritating?_ And why does he have to make the douchiest wardrobe on the planet somehow seem _charming_?

She hates it.

She hates _him_.

To hell with Ben Solo and his stupid typewriter— she wants nothing to do with either of them. She glances at the lingering bit of rose water and milk concoction she’d tested last night— scowling all over again.

 _No,_ she thinks. _She doesn’t want a damned thing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We stan a hipster with a massive chest


	2. I Never Leave Well Enough Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you singing the song yet? Because I can’t seem to stop.

He doesn’t even look surprised when he answers the door— but then again, after a month of this infuriating game they’ve been playing— why would he?

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he teases.

She does her best to suppress an actual _growl._ “Ben, this is getting ridiculous. It’s every week!”

“Well, yeah,” he laughs. “It’s called a weekly deadline.”

“Can’t you just write somewhere other than your office during the night?”

He raises an eyebrow. “My office?”

“Yeah, I’m assuming it’s your office on the other side of my room—”

“It’s my bedroom.”

She isn’t sure why a blush is creeping up her neck— but she swallows thickly as she wraps her robe a little tighter around herself. “Either way. You could write somewhere else this late. You _know_ it keeps me up. Do you _like_ me coming over here to pound on your door every week?”

He smirks as he leans against the door frame— saying nothing as he crosses his arms and _completely_ accentuating just how wide his damned chest is. It leaves her flustered.

“And do you _have_ to sit around half-naked while you write?”

He shrugs. “No one asked you to come over after eleven.”

“ _You_ practically did— clacking away on your dumb typewriter while people try and sleep,” she grumbles. “It’s like you _like_ making me angry.”

“You think I’m trying to—what, lure you over here?” He still looks completely amused— and it does nothing for her ire.

“I— I mean,” she sputters. “Just cut it _out.”_

She stomps back to her own apartment before he can say anything else— slamming the door behind her and leaning against it as she breathes deep.

 _Angry breaths,_ she tells herself. _That’s what this is._

Why does he make her so _mad?_

The past month has been a whirlwind of sniping comments that only make her want to punch him in his pretty face and late nights of _clack clack ding_ that always end with her at his door. Which always ends just as it did tonight— her stomping away angry while he just stands there and _smirks_.

He just makes her so damned _mad._

She stomps back to her bedroom— flouncing on her bed to lean against her headboard with her arms crossed.

It doesn’t take long; she knew it wouldn’t.

 _Clack clack clack ding_!

She feels hot anger bubbling in her chest— tinged with something else. Something she won’t name. Something she _can’t_ name.

Damned Ben Solo and his stupid shirtless nonsense.

She listens to this for a few moments— considering all sorts of things. Ranging anywhere from kicking his ass or tugging at his hair— but _those_ she buries deep.

She huffs as she rises from her bed finally— figuring that two can play at this game.

It doesn’t take her long to find what she’s looking for— stashed away at the bottom of her closet. She grins in victory when she pulls it out, and she quickly plugs it up near her bed before setting it down on her bedside table to turn it directly toward her wall.

She grins as she turns the dial for the volume all the way up on the little boombox— quickly syncing it to the Bluetooth on her phone and selecting her favorite song to play on repeat. She’s giddy with the knowledge that someone like Ben will surely _hate_ it. She shuffles to her bedroom door— turning to let her finger hover over the _play_ button.

She clicks it finally— lingering for a moment to listen to the opening line of:

_I promise that you’ll never find another like me…_

She shuts the door behind her— resigned to take the couch tonight but not perturbed in the slightest. Let Taylor sing Ben Solo to sleep tonight.

Or better yet— let her _keep him up._

Rey sleeps like a baby.

* * *

Rey is practically skipping the next morning.

Even when she receives a text from Poe letting her know he is running late— it hardly phases her. She shrugs it off as she steps inside the coffee shop where they are meeting— still feeling the residual effects of her tiny victory the night before.

Ben had never come to _her_ door to grumble about her tactics— not that she’d _wanted_ him to or anything. Which she assuredly didn’t. Want him to come to her door, that is.

Why is she trying to convince herself right now?

Whatever. She won this round. That’s what matters.

She places her order cheerfully— even grabbing a scone for good measure and nodding her head happily to the overhead music while she waits for them to call her name.

She should have known it was too good to be true.

His voice at her ear is so close and so sudden that it startles her a little. “Someone looks well-rested this morning.”

_You have got to be kidding me._

But no, a quick turn reveals a very _tall_ very _smirking_ Ben Solo— because of _course_ he visits the coffee shop right around the corner from the building. Of _course_ he does.

She refuses to let her eyes linger on the dark denim button down that strains across his broad form— choosing to keep her attention on that ridiculous fedora of his that is just preposterous.

Or at least— she _thinks_ it’s preposterous. Now that she’s really looking at it she supposes it’s not _so_ bad. In fact on Ben it might even be—

_No. Stop that._

She refuses to let him rile her. “Yes, well. I slept very well last night.”

“Did you now.”

She grins triumphantly. “Like a baby.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

“Oh? How terrible for you. Did something keep you up?”

He doesn’t seem too put out by her victory— in fact, he seems amused. She doesn’t like that. Why does he _always_ seem amused by her?

“The only thing that kept me awake last night is someone’s terrible taste in music,” he quips.

She feels her skin prickle. “Excuse me? I do _not_ have terrible taste in music.”

“Says the girl who forced me to listen to Swiftie garbage for hours until I was forced to retire to my couch.”

“Taylor Swift is a Grammy winner! There is nothing garbage about her.”

“It’s not real music, Rey.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure you only listen to obscure indie bands no one’s ever heard of. On _vinyl_ only, no doubt.”

“No indie,” he counters. “Although I can’t argue with you on the vinyl sentiment— as charming as that was.”

“Of course you only listen to vinyl,” she scoffs.

“It’s the only way to properly digest the sound.”

“Of _course_ it is.” Her voice is dripping with contempt now— but Ben still seems unphased.

“Maybe I could show you my collection sometime.”

She’s a little thrown by this. Of all the times they’ve interacted, he’s never shown any interest in interacting on _purpose._ She thought he only lived to annoy her.

She’s opening her mouth to attempt an answer— a feat that is proving far more difficult than it should be— when she is saved (or thwarted?) by the barista announcing Ben’s order.

He takes the cup from the barista— taking a sip from the top as he pointedly stares over the edge to wait for Rey’s response. She decidedly should _not_ be distracted by his too-full mouth as it rests against the rim of his cup. She really shouldn’t.

Does it have to be so pink? Men really shouldn’t have mouths that pink— or that full for that matter. It’s entirely unfair to the entirety of her gender that Ben Solo is walking around with a mouth like that.

She realizes she’s just standing there staring at his damned mouth. She knows Ben surely realizes this too.

She clears her throat— looking away and changing  the subject like a coward.

She points to his cup. “Let me guess— nonfat soy latte?”

He smiles around the lid. “It’s just black coffee, actually.”

She groans. “Why is that somehow _worse_?”

“It’s… not very good.” He grimaces. “Nothing like what I can make at home— but I was pressed for time. I overslept due to being kept up late by electro-pop garbage.”

“That’s an opinion,” she snorts— perking up when she hears her own order called. She takes her frappe and her scone— ignoring Ben’s ever-present smirk as he eyes her drink.

“The right one,” he counters.

“Whatever you say.”

“You didn’t answer me.”

She raises an eyebrow. “About?”

“Seeing my collection.”

She hadn’t thought he’d be so _persistent_ about the matter. She feels her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles. “I—”

“There you are.”

She turns to see Poe approaching— breathing out a sigh of relief. She isn’t sure what to make of the strange swooping sensation in her belly at Ben’s invitation. She hates him. Absolutely. Can’t stand him.

Right?

“Poe,” she greets— ignoring Ben’s heated stare. “It’s about time.”

“Yes, yes, I know— Finn’s car wouldn’t start this morning. Had to drop him at work.” He notices Ben standing there then— clapping him on the shoulder. “Hey, Solo. Fancy seeing you here.”

Ben nods. “Yes. Fancy.”

Poe gestures between Ben and Rey. “How do you two know each other?”

“Ben is my neighbor,” Rey clarifies

“ _Really?”_ Poe looks genuinely shocked. “I had no idea which floor you lived on, Solo. I guess maybe I should have asked during one of those bump-ins at the front desk.”

Ben takes a slow sip from his cup— seeming to hide a grimace. Rey nearly rolls her eyes. It isn’t _that_ bad. “Mhm,” Ben answers. “No big deal.” He raises his cup then in Rey’s direction. “I’ll see you two around, I guess.”

She watches him go, thoughts still lingering on his invitation to knock on his door for some other reason than lack of sleep. For every second she’s known him, he’s _lived_ to antagonize her. She can’t help but think that this too is some clever plot to leave her flustered. He seems to love doing that.

She quickly pushes it far from her mind.

“I didn’t know you and Ben were neighbors,” Poe remarks. “He’s a decent guy.”

Rey snorts, and Poe raises an eyebrow. “He’s a menace,” she clarifies.

“ _Really?”_

Rey nods. “Up all hours of the night with that blasted typewriter of his— who uses a _typewriter?_ Not to mention he seems to live for riling me up. Every word that comes out of that man’s mouth makes me want to strangle him.”

Poe laughs. “Classic playground scenario.”

“Excuse me?”

Poe rattles off an order to the barista before responding. “Playground scenario,” he repeats. “Sort of like when a six-year-old boy tugs on your braids because he doesn’t know quite yet that he thinks you’re cute.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Rey scoffs. “He literally makes my life a living hell.”

“In what way?”

“He’s always making these little snide remarks, and offering me _tips_ for my hair and skin—and don’t even get me started on the _typewriter._ Up all hours of the night— got me beating on his door every other evening—”

“You beat on his door?”

“Yeah? I mean he won’t let me sleep and I—”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Well, that _is_ when he’s keeping me awake and—” Poe is grinning— and Rey feels herself growing irritated. “ _What?”_

“Oh, honey,” Poe tuts. “Playground scenario.”

“That’s _ridiculous,”_ she repeats firmly. “He would never want— ”

She nearly bites her tongue as a thought strikes her.

_Maybe I could show you my collection sometime._

She pulls at that thread for exactly three seconds before she quickly shakes her head. No. Not a chance.

“Ben Solo doesn’t want anything from me other than to annoy the ever-loving shit out of me,” she says finally.

Poe shrugs. “Whatever you say.”

They find a spot near the window as Poe pulls out his laptop. “Anyway— I’m having a party this weekend. You should come.”

She pulls out her iPad from her messenger bag— unlocking it as she gives him a confused look. “A party?”

“Yeah, Finn likes to have a lot of the tenants over at least once a month as an excuse to show off whatever new piece he’s acquired since the last time he forced me to socialize.”

Rey can’t help but laugh at this. Finn is a fairly recognizable art dealer with a penchant for not being able to let certain pieces go— which makes for very interesting decor in their apartment.

“Don’t talk like you don’t worship the ground he walks on,” she teases.

“Of course I do,” he nods. “But I can't very well just _tell_ him that— he’ll run the show more than he already does.”

“Sure,” she chuckles.

“So, party?”

“I don’t know…” Her mind wanders to one place in particular beyond her control. “Do you invite… all the tenants?”

“Not all of them. Just the ones we’re friendly with. Mostly—” He trails off, grinning suddenly. “Ah. You’re worried about one in particular.”

“I’m not _worried.”_ God, she hopes she isn’t blushing. “I just don’t want to have to endure any more time wanting to pull my hair out than I have to.”

“Mhm.” Poe takes a sip— looking as if he doesn’t believe her. She busies herself with her iPad as she pulls up their program so she doesn’t have to meet his eyes. “ _Well,”_ he goes on, “I usually invite Ben but he never shows. So I don’t think you have very much to worry about.”

“Oh.” She feels a barely-there sinking feeling for a fraction of a second before she catches it and reminds herself that this is a good thing. “I mean good. Great. Yes. I’ll be there.”

“Great,” Poe echoes. “It’ll be a fun time. Maybe. Just don’t let Finn corner you. You’ll be forced to endure a symposium on Neo-Impressionism until the sun comes up.”

Rey laughs. “What a tragedy.”

Poe sighs. “But he’s so _passionate_ about it.”

“Secretly, you love it when he nerds out about this. Don’t you.”

“It’s barely a secret.” Poe shakes his head. “I can’t help it. He’s adorable.”

“How romantic,” Rey grins.

He laughs as he starts going over the plans then— pulling up diagrams and charts before moving on to the bit of paperwork he’s brought concerning their _finally_ permit issue.

Rey keeps her attention focused on him— trying and failing not to let her mind wander to this weekend where she’ll be attending a party that Ben isn’t.

Trying to remind herself that this is a _good_ thing.

It’s what she _wants._

_Maybe I could show you my collection sometime._

She fidgets in her seat— thinking to herself that if his stupid typewriter doesn’t keep her up tonight…  replaying his invitation over and over in her head certainly might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, he’ll show her something all right...


	3. But One Of These Things Is Not Like The Others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben _never_ comes to these things...

“— some would even argue that the movement was the first true avant-garde. What do you think?”

Rey realizes then Finn is speaking directly to her. She tries to blink away what is surely a glazed look in her eyes— squinting for good measure at the framed art piece on the wall Finn is gesturing at and nodding appreciatively.

“I could see it.”

She has absolutely no idea what either she or Finn is talking about— hasn’t really for the last five minutes.

Poe had tried to warn her after all— but he’d been right about one thing at least. Finn _is_ adorable when he gets fired up. So she nods politely, and she looks as invested as she’s able to about a topic she knows nothing about.

“I told Poe just last week that I—”

The man in question decides to save her then, clapping her on her shoulders and giving his husband and wry smile. “Babe, did you know Amilyn was here tonight?”

Finn perks up. “Really? I haven’t seen her since she came back from Paris.” He gives Rey an apologetic look then. “Rey, darling, you’ll forgive me if I step away? I’ll be more than happy to finish our chat later.”

Rey nods enthusiastically. “Of course. Go, go, I’ll be around.”

Finn beams as he disappears through the dining room— Poe biting back a grin. “I did warn you.”

“You did,” Rey sighs. “But he just gets so excited.”

“He does.” Poe beams at the door Finn has just disappeared through for a moment before returning his attention to Rey. “You look nice tonight.”

She glances down at her dark jeans and her sleeveless black top that dips a little lower than she normally allows at the neckline. “Ah, thank you.”

“Did you get that dressed up for us or were you hoping to see someone else tonight?”

Rey averts her eyes— hoping she isn’t blushing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh,” Poe shrugs. “I just thought you might want to know that I ran into Solo on the stairs yesterday. He was very interested in my guest list.”

“He was?”

Poe grins. “He was just very curious of who else I might have invited from his floor in particular.”

Rey _knows_ she’s blushing now. “Was he.”

“Mhm. Fed me some lines about having a disagreement with 4B— but I happen to know 4B is Mrs. Kanata and save for being a little cantankerous— that woman is as sweet as pie.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t asking for my benefit,” she says flippantly.

“You don’t think so?” Poe purses his lips. “Then why is he in my living room right now?”

Rey feels herself gaping. “He isn’t.”

“Oh, he definitely is.” Poe smirks. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say he’s even looking for someone.”

Rey feels at a loss. Why would he come now? _Tonight?_

For her?

That possibility leaves her just as flustered as it does confused.

Why is he _here?_

She realizes she is just standing there shuffling through a multitude of possibilities in her own head— idly chewing at her thumbnail nervously as Poe watches this train wreck happen.

She quickly straightens— resisting the urge to fidget. “I’m—” Oh God, that is _not_ her normal voice. She clears her throat. “I’m going to go get a drink.”

“Sure, babe,” Poe grins. “Liquid courage and all that.”

“It’s not _courage,_ ” she huffs. “I don’t need _courage.”_

Poe is still just smiling at her like she’s the butt of his personal joke— and she scowls as she brushes past him in search of his wet bar in Finn’s gallery down the hall. She could really use that drink— or _three—_ her nerves pulled so tight they might as well be tripwires waiting to be set off.

And the person most likely to trod all over them is currently just one room away.

 _It’s fine,_ she tells herself. _This is fine._

The room is blessedly empty— and she breathes a sigh of relief as she crosses to serve herself something.

She’s nearly through her second glass of some sparkling white wine that is surely Finn’s when she feels hims.

Yes, _feels_ him. His large presence is like a tangible thing as he approaches behind her— making her skin prickle and the hair at her nape stand up and his _voice_ as he speaks to her. Low and careful as if he considers every word before it leaves his mouth.

“Can I buy you a drink?“

She should roll her eyes at that— it’s very lame as far as openers go, after all. But she can’t find the strength to. Not when she’s still rooted to the spot and searching for the capability to turn around.

What is _wrong_ with her?

She blows out a deep breath as she finally turns— craning her neck ( _always_ craning her neck just to look up at him) in search of his face. She passes over a dark t-shirt that is far too tight (or is he just too large?) and she holds her breath a little when she finally meets his gaze.

Ben has a way of looking at you as if he sees more than you do. It’s unnerving— it’s _exasperating—_ but mostly it just makes her squirm. Which in turn irritates her. It’s not something she’s used to feeling.

She tips back her glass for some of that liquid courage Poe had mentioned— trying to seem collected. “An easy feat at an open bar.”

Ben grins down at her as he crosses his arms— and it is then she’s made aware of the newest absurdity that is his sense of style.

She wrinkles her brow as she gestures to the tiny knot at the top of his head. “What in God’s name is that?”

He cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

“Please tell me you aren’t sporting a man bun.”

He laughs a little. “What is it about my state of dress that irritates you so much?”

“ _Everything_ about you irritates me.”

He doesn’t look put out by this statement— in fact he looks as if she’s just made a joke. Something about Rey is always amusing Ben.

“So I’ve noticed,” he murmurs finally. Rey takes a final swig from her glass— and Ben frowns at this finally. “You’re drinking that wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

“The wine,” he clarifies. “You’re doing it all wrong.”

“Now I’m _drinking_ incorrectly?”

He purses his lips. “Here.”

He pulls her glass away— ignoring the look of stunned indignation she’s flashing at him while he quietly circles around the other side of the bar to pour her another glass. He holds it out to her over the bar top when he’s done— waiting a moment before she grabs for the rounded part.

Ben sighs, shaking his head as he pulls it back out of her grasp gently.

“ _What_?”

He gingerly holds the glass by the stem— gesturing to it with his other hand. “You don’t manhandle the glass itself. That’s what the stem is for.”

Rey rolls her eyes. “Of course.”

He reaches for her hand— pulling it into his own over the wood to hold it between them as her breath catches. She feels his thumb rubbing into her palm— and with every circular stroke into her skin there— her heart rate quickens.

“Your hands are so warm, see?” Another slow motion from his thumb against her skin. “It will warm the wine faster. Not what you want.”

She nods— because in that moment she finds everything else is too difficult. He doesn’t let go of her hand— instead holding out the glass by the stem to let it hover just against her bottom lip.

“Don’t rush it,” he murmurs. “Don’t treat it like a two dollar beer— sip it.” He tilts the glass as she opens dutifully— spell bound by whatever _this_ is— letting the cool liquid spill there in a small increment before he pulls the glass away. “Let it sit on your tongue for a second. Really _savor_ the experience.”

She isn’t sure why just the mention of her tongue from his mouth sets a chill running through her. She tells herself the cool wine is a large factor. She knows this is a lie.

“Well?” His eyebrow is cocked as a sly grin paints his features. “Good, right?”

“It tastes the same to me.” Another lie, but one she’s clinging to.

He frowns for a moment before setting the glass down on the bar— reaching underneath it to rummage through the small fridge there and making a triumphant sound when he finds whatever it is he’s looking for.

He straightens to set a small container of strawberries between them— plucking one from the plastic carton and circling back around the bar to stand closer.

“Open.”

“Excuse me?”

He rolls his eyes. “Open your mouth, Rey.”

She swallows thickly. His eyes on her like this make her unsettled. He holds the tiny fruit just in front of her mouth— staring pointedly as he waits for her to oblige.

She rolls her lips together in a nervous manner before she slowly parts them. He’s watching her mouth now— studying the way she opens for him before resting the fruit against her tongue that lays waiting for him.

He never looks away as she takes a small bite from the end— watching as she chews slowly and nodding appreciatively. She notices his own throat bob as he sets the remainder of the fruit on a napkin, handing her the glass once more.

“Now, sip. Like I showed you.”

She does as he asks— taking a tiny sip from her glass and holding it against her tongue for a few moments before swallowing. The blend of the strawberry with the wine is like an explosion in her mouth— and she can’t help but let a tiny satisfied sound hum in her chest.

Ben beams with victory, and Rey tries to stomp down that minor urge to defy him and this moment. It’s just so _strange—_ feeling anything other than irritation where Ben is concerned.

He’s quiet then— still watching her mouth fixedly and she sees the way his eyes darken. She can’t help the way her thoughts flit to what she might do if he kissed her then. What his mouth might feel like. It looks so _soft._

Then his thumb is reaching— brushing against her lip to wipe away some bit of wetness either from the fruit or the wine and it doesn’t _matter_ because he’s leaning a little bit and they are the only two in this room but not _nearly_ the only two in this apartment and she’s a little dizzy from it. From _all_ of it.

She suddenly is made painfully of where they are. Of _who_ they are. They don’t do this. They don’t do _anything_ like this.

She feels the two glasses she’d tossed back before he found her go straight to her head all at once, and she has to close her eyes as she abruptly breaks away from his touch.

“I—” She scrambles to remember what exactly she’d intended to do. She takes a steadying breath. A mistake— as this allows a large rush of whatever cologne he’s sporting to flood her nostrils and _that_ does nothing for the dizzy sensation currently afflicting her. “I need some air,” she blurts out.

He looks confused— opening his mouth to protest she thinks— but she doesn’t give him the time. She turns on her heel— striding out of the gallery room and stumbling into the living room to be met with a thick crowd of bodies.

It’s too much. She needs somewhere to _think._

She spots the glass doors of their balcony from across the room— the curtains slung half-way across but allowing just enough of the outside city lights through to call her like a beacon— and she begins to politely push through the crowd in search of it.

The cool night air outside is a _relief—_ washing over her heated skin and clearing her senses a little.

Did she almost _kiss_ Ben Solo?

What’s more— did she actually _want_ to?

She finds him attractive— that much she can admit. Even with his ridiculous sweaters and his awful hat and now there’s that preposterous _man bun_ he apparently sports at times. Still, there is his eyes and his mouth and that damned _chest_ that seems to fill an entire doorframe and yes— she finds him attractive.

But he’s always tormenting her. He’s always saying things to push her buttons and rile her up and he makes her so _mad_ but she’s still thinking about what it would be like to _kiss_ him.

It’s annoyingly confusing.

She steps across the balcony to lean over the rail— threading her fingers in her hair as she huffs out a sigh.

She doesn’t even have to look when she hears the balcony door quietly open and close behind her. She can’t seem to escape him tonight— or any night for that matter.

He doesn’t say anything as he steps beside her— not even as he lets his forearms rest against the railing and leans over it in the same way she is.

“I’m starting to think you genuinely don’t like me.”

“I don’t,” she tosses back— but even to her it sounds weak.

“Why not?”

“Because you infuriate me.”

“Here I thought you were just a little high strung.”

She scoffs as she pushes away from the railing. “See— that's _exactly_ what I mean. You’re always saying things to pick at me.”

“I thought I was helping you.”

“You _think_ you’re better than everyone.”

He looks genuinely confused then. “When did I ever say that?”

“You didn’t have to. You act it.”

He makes a face. “Because I know things?”

“Because you _flaunt_ that you know things.”

“You’re not making very much sense.”

“Well, that’s because I drank too much wine— _incorrectly,_ I might add— and then in there… you almost _kissed_ me, and I—”

“You think I was going to kiss you?”

She feels her face heat. “You weren't?”

He shrugs. “That depends. Did you want me to?”

“I— of course I didn’t.”

He heaves out a sigh. “I think you’re lying.”

“I’m _not.”_

“Okay.” He takes a step closer— and then he’s just _there—_ nearly pressed against her and her breath hitches without her meaning it to and his fingers are tilting her chin and she’s _helpless_ to do anything but let him. “Then what’s that? Why the looks and the breaths and even now— you’re angling closer. I think you _very much_ want to kiss me.”

“I—”

His thumb brushes along her jaw— and she forgets what she was going to say. “And if you admit it,” he tells her quietly, “I will.”

“I— I don’t—” She’s floundering— caught between _he’s an asshole_ and _for the love of God, kiss me—_ and the words simply won’t come. She sees the way he’s smirking down at her— that goddamned mouth of his turned up on one side and she feels blind aggravation warring with what is surely wine-induced horniness and _fuck it all—_ she never stood a chance.

He’s surprised at first— when she reaches to tug at the back of his head. When she pulls him down to her as her mouth crashes against his.

It’s messy, and a little rough— but it tastes like strawberries and white wine and he’s quiet for _once_ and when his mouth opens to let her tongue sweep through she feels that tiny surge of triumph course through her.

She can’t be sure if she actually won this round— but it feels like maybe she did at least.

He pushes her to the corner of the balcony— hands finding her waist to pull her closer as he molds her against him. Everything about Ben is all hard edges and firm skin— and she doesn’t hesitate to let her hands wander like she’s admittedly thought about doing for weeks.

He doesn’t seem to mind if his low sounds are anything to go by— and when his own hands start to explore— Rey is dizzy for reasons that have nothing to do with the wine.

When his palms settle over her chest— the sharp breath she inhales forces her breasts even further into his hands, and he squeezes lightly for good measure.

“You shouldn’t wear a bra,” he murmurs against her jaw. “Your tits are small enough to go without.”

Embarrassed anger flashes through her chest as she tries to push him away. “ _Excuse me?”_

He tugs her back against him— his hand settling exactly where it had been as he pinches her nipple through the layers of material and causes her to gasp softly.

“If you weren’t wearing one I could touch you more,” he clarifies, and for some reason that assuages her flicker of rage. He kneads at her breast, and a moan slips out of her. “I bet I could get my mouth around one easily.”

She shivers at this— her legs feeling weak and his hands are still _moving_ as his mouth finds hers again. As his tongue presses inside to tangle with hers. When his fingers toy with the edge of her jeans— she stills, alight with both excitement and the knowledge of _there are people just inside._

“I want to touch you.” His voice seems breathier now— betraying just how much he actually does. “Tell me not to.” She is quiet as he works the button through the loop— his lips pressing to the corner of her mouth. “Tell me to stop.” He works down the zipper— and she probably should— something tells her she should— but she doesn’t _want_ to. His hand stops moving— fingertips resting lightly between her hip bones to linger. “Or tell me _not_ to.”

She breathes out a sigh— pressing her hips closer to him in hopes that is enough.

“ _Rey,”_ he urges.

She nods— slowly, like a concession— even if admittedly it doesn’t feel like one. Then his hand slips into her underwear and he’s _reaching_ and his fingers part her to _press_ and she can’t do anything but push into his hand _harder._

He strokes at the hard little bud of her clit— pushing against it to rub a circle and smearing the slick wetness there. He slides lower— his middle finger catching at her entrance as the heel of his hand continues to apply pressure at her clit.

Her mouth falls open as his finger sinks inside to the second knuckle— so _thick_ and leaving her so _full_ and it is only his _finger._

Some semblance of sanity returns to her— and she grips at his shoulders to steady herself. “What if— what if someone—”

“They won’t see anything I don’t want them to,” he assures her, pulling her closer to him as his body blocks the balcony door from view. “It will only look like I’m kissing you. No one will know I’m knuckle-deep in your cunt.”

He pushes a little deeper for good measure— and her head lolls forward a little as a whimper sounds from her throat.

“Did you know your skin smells like rose water?” She can _feel_ his grin against her heated flesh— but he doesn’t stop talking. “I think you’ve lied about a _few_ things lately.”

She grits her teeth to hold back another moan— arousal and irritation clashing inside her. “Do you _ever_ shut up?”

“You want me to?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she hisses.

“I think that’s a lie, too.” He withdraws from her cunt to add a second finger and grind deep— and Rey nearly cries out with the surprise of it. “Because when I talk—” His voice is at her ear now— a calculated movement. “—you _clench_ around my fingers. Like you enjoy it. Like you enjoy it _very much.”_

“I don’t,” she protests weakly.

She feels teeth nip at her earlobe. “Are you sure?”

 _Damnit,_ she really does— her cunt gripping at his fingers as he tries to angle them deeper inside her. The base of his hand still grinds against her clit with every movement— and between the wine and his hand and just _him—_ she is already horribly close to something earth-shattering.

Her fingers move to catch in his hair again— moving through the thick strands until she is hindered by the little knot that binds the top half. She makes a little growl as she is reminded just _who_ is making her fall apart— and she tugs at the hair tie roughly.

“Take that ridiculous thing off,” she huffs.

“What?”

“Off, down—” She finally hooks a finger into the tie. “ _Whatever._ Get rid of it.”

He smiles instead of being angry— reaching with his free hand to gently take over and pull his hair free. It falls around his face a little wildly— doing nothing but make him _more_ appealing in the moonlight.

Her mouth falls open as he continues to pump into her with his thick fingers— and she grips his hair earnestly  then— pulling him down to her as he licks into her mouth and his hand picks up its pace.

She knows someone surely _would_ know what they were doing were they to come out— it would be impossible to miss with the way she’s steadily grinding against his hand— but she finds then that she hardly cares.

She just needs the crescendo of this symphony he seems to be conducting. To reach the end of these infuriating feelings he instills in her. She _needs_ it. Desperately.

With every stroke into her he grinds the heel of his hand against her clit— and she feels it building— an orgasm so bright her toes are already curling and his tongue is still so _insistent_ against hers and his fingers so _thick_ and _deep_ and just a _little more—_

It nearly steals her breath— the force of the release that rocks through her. Her legs shake and her body trembles and she’s breathing _so hard_ and Ben—

Ben is kissing her everywhere he can reach. Lips passing over her cheeks and jaw and down her throat even as his fingers continue to pump into her slowly to ride out her orgasm.

She comes down like a light breeze— soft and airy and _spent—_ and she almost doesn’t register the moment when he finally pulls his hand away. When he quietly buttons up her jeans before pressing a soft kiss to her mouth.

“Well,” he starts quietly. “I think it’s safe to say I was right.”

She blinks up at him in a daze. “What?”

“You _definitely_ wanted that.”

She isn’t sure what part of this sets her off.

Maybe it’s the way he says it— or the smirk he gives her as he does, or maybe it’s just that it’s hitting her now what she’s just done. What she’s just done with _Ben_ . Outside her friend’s _party._

She doesn’t do this.

She doesn’t do this with _Ben._

She feels hot embarrassment creeping up her neck, and she pushes at his chest to put distance between them.

“I can’t believe we just did that.” Her eyes flick to the balcony door. “I can’t _believe_ we just _did_ that.”

She sees his brow furrow. “Don’t act like that. Don’t cheapen it. You wanted it. We both did.”

She swallows heavily— still wrought with embarrassment. “I have to go.”

She moves to brush past him— but he catches her wrist. “Don’t do that. Don’t go.”

Her eyes move from his to his hand over her wrist— and she tugs it away. “I— I have to go.”

She pushes through the balcony door— even as Ben calls after her. She doesn’t look back as she weaves through the crowd— never slowing until she’s out the door and up the stairs and shoving inside her own apartment. She’ll text Poe later to tell him she wasn’t feeling well or something.

She really _isn’t_ feeling well— but her insurmountable inability to muddle through her own feelings is more likely the culprit.

It’s difficult— thinking you feel a certain way only to have it turned on its head in such a short amount of time. She’d convinced herself she feels nothing for Ben save for the all-encompassing vexation he floods her with at any given moment. That’s all she’s _allowed_ herself to feel.

But she hardly felt any of that tonight. She felt something _entirely_ different.

The startling truth smacks her dead in the face— only making her panicked escape all the more frustrating.

She doesn’t hate Ben Solo. In fact… she might like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...but apparently Rey does.


	4. Like A Rainbow With All Of The Colors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show her your collection, Ben. 👀

She doesn’t see him for three days.

It’s not as if she has his number, not as if he has hers— and sure, maybe she goes a little out of her way to avoid him. Maybe she ignores the _clack clack_ -ing that drifts through her bedroom wall at night.

Maybe she tries too hard to forget what it felt like when his mouth and his hands were on her.

It’s not as if he came looking for her. He could have— he’s right next door, after all.

 _Can you blame him?_ her traitorous mind whispers. _You took an orgasm and ran out on him._

Her brain has a point— even if she hates that it does.

So of course it would be at an absolute low point that she would be forced to interact with him again. When she’s sitting on the floor outside her door— her keys on the _other_ side of the locked mechanism where she’d forgotten to grab them this morning.

And of course the super is out until later.

Perfect.

This is how he finds her.

Slumped on the floor, perusing the newest copy of _Time_ — scowling and irritated with the knowledge she’ll probably be late to meet Poe and Rose in little over an hour like she was supposed to.

He lingers at the top of the stairs just a few feet away— his mail in his hands and looking entirely too enticing to be in only a white t-shirt and sweatpants.

She tells herself to focus on the pants— they probably cost more than her best pair of shoes— but that only brings her gaze to everything they cover, and that is dangerous. She buries her nose back in her magazine instead.

She thinks maybe he’ll let her off easy. That he’ll take the hint and just _go inside_ and leave her to her plight.

She’s wrong.

“What are you doing?”

She forces herself not to look up— keeping her eyes trained on the article she’s not reading anymore. “Waiting.”

“For?”

She swallows. He’s standing over her now. “The super.”

She sees him glance from her door to her from her peripherals— putting his hands on his hips and _that_ shouldn’t be as distracting as it is. “Did you get locked out?”

“Obviously.”

She thinks he smiles, but it’s hard to tell since she refuses to look at him. But then his hand is thrust in her vision— extended in offering. “Come on. You can wait at my place.”

“That’s okay,” she tosses back weakly. “I’m good here.”

“Don’t be a stubborn ass. Get up.”

She feels that familiar prickle— that irritation that he so adeptly instills— but she recognizes he’s being nice right now. That _she’s_ the one being difficult. It does nothing for her attitude.

She sighs, tucking her magazine under her arm and taking his hand as he hoists her up.

“There,” he chuckles. “Was that so hard?”

She rolls her eyes as he unlocks his door— the pair of them pressing inside as he tosses his keys on the entry table. She sets her phone that she’s holding there as well— looking around his place to take it in.

The layout is nearly the same as hers— but where her apartment is somewhat bare— Ben’s is littered with _things_ and _color_.

There is artwork on the walls— some she recognizes and some she doesn’t, as well as prints of old films that have scrawled signatures that she suspects are from the original cast. She spots his _collection_ on the opposite wall— an array of records organized neatly on a wide shelf where a large record player of what looks to be extremely high quality sits on top.

“This is… a nice place,” she admits.

“Thanks.” He shrugs as he crosses into the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“That would actually be great.”

He nods as he turns to some device she hadn’t noticed sitting on his counter— some ancient looking thing with an aged handle. She watches curiously as he pulls out a container with what looks to be _whole_ coffee beans— and it hits her then what he’s doing.

“You _grind_ your own coffee?”

He raises an eyebrow as he measures a scoop of the beans to drop it into the grinder. “I promise this will be the best coffee you’ve ever had. A lot better than whatever swill you’ve grown accustomed to at those chains.”

“Why am I not surprised by this?”

“Maybe because you’ve realized by now that I have amazing taste.”

She snorts. “Oh, is that it?”

“It is.” He gives her a heated stare as he replaces the lid to the grinder. “I only want the best. In all things.”

She can’t help but blush as he continues to stare at her like that— picking up that he’s talking about more than the coffee. Suddenly the room feels a little small, and she clears her throat. “That— That grinder looks ancient.”

His eyes flick down to it. “It was my grandfather’s.”

“Ah, I guess that makes sense.”

“It still works better than those shitty automatic ones.” He begins to crank the handle on top— and she can’t help the way her eyes are drawn to the way his arms flex and tighten with every turn. “Besides— I like the satisfaction of doing it myself. Makes the end result more of a reward.”

“Is it not exhausting having this level of…” She’s not sure what to call what Ben has. She waves her hand in a slow circle as she struggles to find the word. “ _Passion_? All day? All the time?”

He shrugs— continuing to turn the handle as Rey fights to not stare at the rippling muscles of his arms. “People are too concerned with what’s fast and easy. The best things in life aren’t easy. The best things come hard.”

 _He didn’t mean that like it sounded_ , she tells herself. _He absolutely didn’t mean to cause the swooping sensation in your belly._

But he’s still looking at her pointedly, even as he continues to grind the beans. She finds it’s too much— turning away to break his gaze and moving to look at his shelf instead.

“I suppose this is your _collection_?”

“Apologies in advance— there isn’t any Taylor Swift.”

She actually laughs. “Only real music, right?”

He doesn’t answer— so she begins to pull at the sleeves carefully to peruse them. She isn’t sure if she’s even surprised by his taste.

“Most of these were popular before you were even born,” she chuckles. She turns over a pristine copy of Blue Oyster Cult’s _Agents of Fortune_. “All of them actually, it seems.”

“They made real music then.”

“You weren’t even there— how in the world did you even come to that decision?”

“My Dad,” he tells her quietly. “I sort of grew up with it.”

“He must be proud you’re still carrying the torch and being the best snob you can be,” she teases.

He is quiet for a moment— and she turns to find his expression a little wistful. He shrugs finally— ceasing his grinding to remove the lid, presumably finished. “I don’t know if he is or not. He died when I was fourteen.”

She feels guilt creeping in. “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs flippantly as he turns to actually brew the coffee. “No big deal.”

She turns back to the records— running her fingers over the edges as she wonders what else she doesn’t know about Ben. Multitudes, really. There’s so much she doesn’t know because she’s never bothered to ask. Too busy being aggravated with him.

“Can I pick one?”

She doesn’t look at him— but she can feel him looking at her. “To listen?”

“Yeah.”

“Go ahead,” he assents. “Just mind the sleeves.”

She resists the urge to roll her eyes— browsing the sleeves until she finds one she recognizes. She carefully loads it onto the player— listening to the brief crackle of the needle against the vinyl before the rich sounds of a piano pour through the speaker.

She hears Ben approach then— holding out a cup for her as she turns. She takes it with a quiet thank you— letting her nose hover over the edge as she inhales the rich fragrance. She glances up at him with a curious expression then. “Is there anything in this?”

“Good coffee doesn’t need all of those embellishments.”

She can’t help but grin at what she’s recognizing is such a _Ben_ thing to say.

His eyes flick to the record player as he takes a sip from his cup. “Sam Cooke?”

“My foster mother loved this song. Played it _incessantly_.”

He looks as if he might ask about that statement— about the foster mother bit— but he doesn’t. “It’s a fantastic song.”

“It is.”

She’s just about to take a sip from her own cup when he seems to notice the magazine still tucked beneath her arm. He reaches to tug at it— and she lets it go with only a bit of resisting before it’s in his hands and he’s looking it over.

“ _Time_?”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah, what of it?”

“Just not what I expected you to read.” 

She huffs. “Oh, I guess you think I should be reading _Cosmo_?”

He doesn’t answer— just grins as he takes a sip again, and she scowls as she thinks about the stack of that _exact_ magazine currently in her bedroom.

He cracks open the magazine to flip through it. “Any particular articles that interest you?”

She feels her skin heat a little with embarrassment, and she glances away as she answers. “Only one, really. I only buy the magazine for a particular article.”

“Oh?”

He’s looking at her expectantly— and she isn’t sure why she feels that blush creeping up her neck. Surely plenty of people read Kylo’s article.

“ _Commentary on the Mundane_ ,” she mutters.

A quick glance back reveals a look of surprise on Ben’s face. “You actually read that?”

“You don’t?”

He shrugs. “I do, actually. It just surprises me that you do.”

Her skin prickles— feeling her hackles raise in a way that only Ben can cause. “Why— because you think it’s over my head?”

“Not at all— it only surprises me that it interests you.”

She keeps her eyes narrowed— still suspicious. “Well, it does.”

“I’m curious. Why is that?”

She considers a moment— taking in his expression and finding nothing to suggest he is teasing her in any way. “I don’t know…” Her brow furrows as she tries to put it into words. “I suppose it’s because he gets me out of my own head. He makes me see things in a different way. Makes me really _think_. The way he sees the world is—”

“Dull?”

She scowls. “Beautiful.”

He peers back at her for a very long time, considering her words. It’s unsettling— being on the receiving end of that stare. His hands around the cup force her mind to wander where she knows those hands have _been_. To where she might still _want_ them to be.

Suddenly it’s all too obvious that she is _alone_ with Ben in his apartment. That his bedroom is surely close by.

She feels the heat at her nape burn hotter.

He speaks finally— and for the first time since she’s known him she’s glad for it. To have something at least to break this tense silence between them. “That’s surprising to me that you think so.”

“Apparently, I’m full of surprises.”

He grins then— and damn if it doesn’t do strange things to her insides. “You really are.”

She could go to him then— easily. It would be _so very easy_ to cross the space between them and pull him to her. She’s fairly certain he would _let he_ r— but something keeps her from doing so. Something she can’t even pinpoint.

She clears her throat— trying to change the subject. “Do you enjoy him?”

“Who, Kylo Ren?” She nods, and he shrugs, setting the magazine on the shelf. “Sometimes. Mostly, I think it’s a load of bullshit.”

She feels her face contort in aggravation— and she lets out a snort. “No it isn’t.”

“It’s little more than nihilistic garbage at this point.”

She doesn’t know why she’s getting so irritated by this. Or rather— she _does_ — but she isn’t sure why she feels the need to defend Kylo Ren as hard as she does.

“I just think you don’t understand it,” she snaps.

He actually _laughs_. “You don’t think so?”

“Obviously not,” she grits out with more force. “The _world_ is bleak— Kylo simply isn’t afraid to point this out, and in _spite_ of it— he somehow manages to find the thread of optimism amongst it all.”

Ben is quiet for a moment, contemplating. “You really admire him, don’t you.”

She feels a blush beginning to spread yet again, and she tries to shrug nonchalantly. “I mean, yeah. His article has really gotten me through some hard times. I’ll admit he’s become… somewhat darker than he was in the beginning. But it doesn’t change my opinion of him. If anything it makes me feel a little sad for him. He sounds lonely.”

“And how would you be able to tell that just from his article?”

“I think it’s there for anyone really looking.” She shrugs again, thinking this conversation is getting a little strange. “But I’m probably being ridiculous. It’s just an article. Maybe there’s nothing behind it.”

He takes another slow sip— distracting her again. He honestly should be banned from all cups if only to avoid the way his lips swell against the rim. She forces her gaze to his eyes instead— finding this not much better since they are currently boring into hers.

Finally he raises his cup— cocking his head in question. “How is the coffee?”

She looks down into her own cup— taking a slow sip finally. _Damn_. She hates to admit it— but it’s far better than anything she’s ever had from a coffee shop— and there isn’t even any cream or sugar. “It’s really good.”

“Wow,” he chuckles. “That almost sounds like a compliment.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Trust me. I won’t.”

He looks a little pensive as he says this— and Rey feels guilt like hot tar as she realizes how hard she’s been on him. Without ever really knowing him.  Then again— he hasn’t exactly made it _easy_ — so she doesn’t feel _too_ guilty.

She runs her fingers over the edge of one of the colorful cases on the shelf— pondering the silence as words fail her.

“Can I ask you something?”

She flicks her eyes up to notice he’s closer now— setting his cup on a ledge of the shelf. She feels her mouth dry at his proximity— resisting the urge to flee.

She nods, managing a quiet, “Yes.”

“Why did you run away the other night?”

Her mouth opens— closing just as fast— unsure of the answer herself, really. “I guess… it was a lot.”

“A lot.”

She nods again, sighing as she adds her cup to rest next to his. “I don’t know, Ben. For weeks I’ve had it in my head that you were just… well, _you_. Then that night— you were just… _you_ , but not the same _you_ , and I just—” She notices just how confused he looks— and she runs a hand through her hair in frustration. “I’m not making sense.”

His lips curl at the corners. “Not really.”

“I guess… it was too much. Finding out I didn’t dislike you as much as I thought I did.”

He takes another step closer— angling in a way that forces her back against the shelf as his hands reach for the ledges on either side to cage her in loosely. “So if you don’t dislike me— is it safe to assume you might _like_ me?”

She pulls at her bottom lip with her teeth— and his eyes don’t miss the movement. “Maybe,” she offers quietly. “I can’t decide.”

“Hm,” his gaze passes over the swell of her mouth as he studies quietly. “Is there anything I can do to tip the scales?”

Her voice is barely a whisper now— but then again, he’s so _close_ that she has no doubt he can hear her anyway. “There might be.”

He’s so near she can make out the curve of his eyelashes— and she feels the span of seconds that pass between them with every thud of her heartbeat.

This time when his lips move over hers— it’s slow, _soft_ — nothing like the party. There’s no urgency or frantic energy to it— only his lips against hers, and she closes her eyes as his palms settle at her shoulders to brush along the length of her arms.

She arches quietly against him when his hands find her waist— making a slow path over her hips and up her ribs before sliding up her throat to cup her jaw. She feels his tongue tease against her lower lip— and then feels it slip into her mouth as she opens for him.

This too, is slow, and even as his hips pin hers to the shelf behind them— even as she can feel the hard length of him through his overly expensive sweatpants— it feels as if he’s taking his time. As if he has all the time in the world to do just _this_.

She feels her chest rising and falling with effort— warmth flooding her veins and a lightness in her head and he’s so _warm_ pressed against her and she knows if nothing else— she _definitely_ likes this.

She rolls her hips into his— feeling a little victorious when his breath catches and a low growl resounds in his chest. His fingers tangle in her hair as he angles her neck— turning her face so that he can pull her closer, kiss her _deeper_.

One hand drops to her hip to squeeze as the other remains embedded deep in her hair— tugging to roll her against his clothed cock at a steady rhythm as his tongue laves over hers and his sounds grow bolder, _louder_.

He’s pressed so tightly against her the edge of the shelves bite at her back— but she’s too lost in his body and his mouth and his _sounds_ to notice.    

She can hear his breath becoming labored— his kiss becoming something decidedly less soft and his _cock_ — straining against his sweats as it slots against her core and the heat of it through her leggings is nearly _unbearable_.

She would let him tear them off right now, if he asked. She would let him bend her over the back of his fancy couch and do whatever he wanted— she knows this with certainty.

Maybe _she’ll_ ask— surely he wants to. Maybe she’ll—

The shrill ring of her cellphone is like a bucket of ice water to her blazing libido. It chirps from its place on his entry table— and she stills as it blares at them from across the room.

“Ignore it,” he mutters— nipping at her bottom lip.

It’s very tempting— but not a valid option. “I’m sure it’s the super.”

He makes some guttural noise that voices an irritation that mirrors her own— one that is born of him in a much different manner than normal, funnily enough.

He sighs as he releases her— and she quickly crosses the room to answer only to confirm that yes, the super is outside her door. She tells him she’ll be right there— hanging up the phone and giving Ben a sheepish look.

“I actually have to go,” she says somewhat begrudgingly. “I have to meet Poe and Rose.”

He nods, adjusting himself in his sweatpants and drawing her eye as warmth floods her. “I have a work dinner later, anyway.”

She realizes then she has no idea where he even works. She’s never asked. There’s no time for it now— but she vows to remedy that when there is more time.

“Well,” she offers. “Thanks for letting me wait here.”

“It was no problem.”

“And for the coffee.”

“I told you I could make it better,” he says matter-of-factly.

She smiles at this, but says no more. It feels awkward now— going from dry-humping a person against his extensive record collection to giving tawdry thanks.

“Well…”

“I want to see you again.”

She hopes her face doesn’t light up as much as her insides do. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow?”

She nods. “That… would probably be okay.”

His grin is infectious— and she returns it easily. He asks for her number, and that too, she gives easily. She feels some giddy excitement she’s not used to— made even more foreign by the fact that it’s _Ben_ making her feel this way. It’s alien— but not unwelcome.

He kisses her again before she leaves, and she doesn’t feel even an ounce of that urge to resist only for the sake of doing so. She leans into it even. She takes a little more than necessary.

That giddiness follows her home— and even long after. In fact, hours later— when she’s lying in bed and about to drift to sleep— the steady pecking at Ben’s typewriter does something very different than it normally does, something unexpected.

It makes her smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet y’all thought he was gonna show her his dick, huh. Perverts. (Although let’s be real, he’s totally gonna show her his dick eventually. 😂)
> 
> Also, I think this makes me realize I might be a hipster too? As much as I love Taylor— the 60s - 80s was a superior time for music. 😂
> 
> If y’all don’t follow me on twitter y’all probably don’t know I’m going to New York this week to MEET MY WIFE ohwise1ne and also to see Adam in Burn This! So, this might be my last update until next weekend. Giving my brain a break so I can really enjoy. Follow me on twitter for what is sure to be dumb adventures of a country bumpkin in NY! 😂 Thanks in advance! Love y’all!


	5. Living In Winter, I Am Your Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m backkkkk! 
> 
> I had such an amazing time in NYC, and my only regret is that I had to LEAVE because HOLY HELL I miss my wife. 
> 
> Look at how cute of a [couple](https://twitter.com/ktf_reylo/status/1139186951905513472?s=21) we are. 😭
> 
> ANYWAY. Rey makes an interesting discovery in this chapter. 👀

The first text Ben sends Rey since gaining her number proves to be a bit of a let down.

She frowns down at her phone— wondering why she even feels that way in the first place. A few weeks ago, his number was the last thing she’d wanted anyway.

**Ben: I need to reschedule tonight. I had a work thing come up. Would it be okay if you come over tomorrow instead?**

She still has no idea what he even does— but she’s a little irritated now and doesn’t really feel the urge to ask in this moment.

His second text, however— proves to be a little more squirm-inducing.

**Ben: I can’t stop thinking about your mouth.**

She bites her lip as she sinks into her couch, unable to hold back the little laugh that escapes her because _she knows the feeling._

She’s just about to tell him so when her phone begins to ring— Rose’s name flashing across her screen, and Rey swipes the bar to answer.

“Hello?”

“Yo. Did you know your boy won a Pulitzer?”

Rey’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “What?”

“Mr. _Everything is bad and here’s why._ The magazine guy.”

“Kylo Ren?”

“Yeah. I just heard it on the radio. He’s about to do an interview on NPR in a few minutes apparently. I just thought you might want to know.”

“Oh my God, that’s amazing. I had no idea.” Rey shuffles to her bedroom in search of the boom box she’d used to torture Ben. She smiles to herself as she flicks it on— tuning into the right station. A thought occurs to her as she straightens. “Why were _you_ listening to NPR?”

“Shapiro is hot. Don’t judge me.”

Rey chuckles. “Of course.”

“Have you ever heard this Ren guy talk?

“No. No one has. He’s never really done an interview before. I heard _Kylo Ren_ is actually a pseudonym. Apparently he’s very private.”

“What if he’s like… a hundred years old?”

“I doubt that— but I mean it doesn’t matter. I like his column. I’m amazed they got him to do an interview at all. I wonder what he’s like?” She hears Terry Gross’s voice through Rose’s phone then— echoing the softer lilt of it through the speaker in her bedroom. “I guess I’ll find out. Talk to you later?”

“Try not to drool over the old man’s voice too much.”

Rey is rolling her eyes as she tells Rose goodbye, and she turns up the dial on her radio as she settles on her bed as Terry continues to introduce her guest.

“ _Kylo Ren’s column, Commentary on the Mundane, has been a staple at Time since 2014, and this is his second nomination for a Pulitzer in his field. Often times called, ‘dark realism with a glimmer of hope’— Kylo’s column has always been a divisive topic for Time readers. We’re very excited to be the first interview he’s agreed to do since beginning to write for Time. Kylo, it’s a pleasure to have you here.”_

**_“Thank you, Terry. It’s good to be here.”_ **

Rey cocks her head as she turns up the dial a little higher— some nagging sense of familiarity wriggling at her subconscious.

“ _Tell me, were you surprised when you heard you’d won the prize?”_

Kylo laughs— and Rey’s skin prickles because somehow she _knows_ that laugh.

“ ** _Understatement of the year. I was surprised when I got the nomination.”_ **

_“Personally, I find the column to be quite enlightening. It’s a very niche topic— really digging into the everyday disappointments of your average person. Finding those small reasons to well, carry on. Any personal motivation for such a heavy theme?”_

Rey is leaning close now— her mind _right at the edge_ of a realization and yet unable to grasp it.

**_“I suppose it all started with my father passing away. I was only fourteen at the time— and you can imagine that was a very hard time to lose the person who is supposed to show a young boy his path in life.”_ **

Rey is holding her breath now.

_“I’m very sorry to hear it. I can only imagine how difficult that was.”_

**_“At first, and I suppose even now still— but after a time the sense of loss that ruled my memories of him shifted to a place where the good times outshined the loss. I remembered everything he taught me while I still had him. As a young adult I tried to use this motivation to find the good in the bad. I think the best summation of my general outlook would best be described as the_ ** **world** **_is bleak— but there is a thread of optimism to be found if one is looking. Apparently, I’m looking.”_ **

_“That’s an interesting way to put it.”_

**_“Yes, I thought so too.”_ **

They are still speaking— but Rey is having trouble concentrating now. She’s lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling as her chest heaves with effort.

It’s impossible.

The entire thing is impossible.

She doesn’t know what she’d imagined all these years when she thought of who Kylo Ren might be— but a _too hot for his own good with a stupid hat and a dumb typewriter_ neighbor wasn’t even on her list.

Oh, God.

The things she’d _said_ yesterday.

She recalls the way she’d defended Kylo Ren’s writing— to _Kylo fucking Ren._

She feels her face burn with embarrassment.

Why hadn’t he _said_ anything? Was it some sort of joke to him? Did it amuse him that she admired his writing so much? She can’t think of a single valid reason as to why he would keep it a secret.

She could possibly die from the mortification she’s feeling. She’d implied he might not _understand_ his own column.

Fucking _Christ._

She turns her head to try and catch what they’re saying now— and continues to push aside her own embarrassment in an attempt to finish the interview. She learns so _much_ about Ben in those some odd ten minutes.

She learns he’s thirty-two, six years older than her (how had she never _asked)._ She learns that somewhere out there he’s written a novel— and she mentally stores that information away to track down later. She finds out that _Time_ is honoring his win tonight with some sort of function (so _that’s_ why he had to reschedule). She learns his mother is a fucking _Senator—_ one he won’t name— but never _once_ does he mention his real name.

Not that she needs it— she could place that voice anywhere. It’s been tormenting her in more ways than one for _weeks_ , after all.

By the time Terry is thanking him for coming— Rey is a mess of warring thoughts. She can hardly settle on just one. She can’t seem to reconcile _Kylo Ren_ with _Ben Solo._

She never imagined a world where she might have to.

Her phone buzzes at her lap, and Rey picks it up in a daze as she holds it over her head to check the message.

**Rose: Your dude sounds kind of hot.**

Rey huffs out a strangled laugh as she drops the phone back on the bed— covering her face with her hands and thinking to herself that Rose has _no_ idea.

* * *

Rey isn’t sure how she manages to get anything done that day.

She’d had grand plans to work on some design plans for the Starkiller project, maybe even have lunch with Poe to discuss a few things— but in the end she spent most of her day off huddled on her couch and perusing old publications of Kylo—or _Ben’s_ column.

She heard the words in _Ben’s_ voice now, and that was doing strange things to her.

It was so odd to think that for years Ben has been inspiring her. That his words have pushed her through some of the lower points in her life.

Now when she imagines him huddled over his typewriter— _shirtless,_ she might add— it does very wicked things to her insides.

She isn’t really sure how to broach the subject with him.

Obviously, he isn’t keen on telling her himself, seeing as he’s gone to considerable lengths to avoid the subject altogether. He’s had ample opportunity to reveal this tidbit after all, especially when she _gushed_ to his damned face.

Why _had_ he kept quiet?

It still boggles her mind that he would do so.

For fuck’s sake, she spent nearly a _month_ cursing him under her breath. (Okay, maybe she let her mind linger on his chest a few times, but for the _majority_ of that period she sort of wished he was dead.)

Maybe that’s a little dramatic.

But still.

She drops the issue from four months ago she’s been trying to read into her lap with a frustrated sigh. She’s read the same sentence three times now.

She should answer his text message.

She really should, but for the life of her she doesn’t know what to _say._

He sent another between the interview and now— what time even is it? She glances at the clock, noticing it’s after four. She’s lost nearly the whole _day_ in her dazed musings. She grabs for her phone on the couch— opening the message thread again to stare down at his words.

**Ben: Rey?**

Her fingers hover over the keys for the dozenth time that day, and she finds even now she has no idea what to say. She imagines seeing him again now that she _knows—_ and the thought fills her belly with some strange fluttering of nerves that she’s never experienced before.

She can’t stop thinking about his mouth and his hands and how both have been all over _her_ and it’s _Kylo_ but it’s _Ben_ and _fucking hell_ how will she face him again?

She falls to her side to bury her face in a pillow and makes some exasperated sound.

She’s just about to pull herself from the cushions and force herself to eat something when a sharp knock sounds at her door, and she lifts her head curiously. She knows for a fact Poe and Finn are out tonight— and Rose is halfway across town at her apartment according to their most recent line of messages.

She swings her legs over the couch— forcing herself to stand and shuffling across the living room to pull open the door.

She’s as lost now as she was the first time she met him at an open door.

He’s not shirtless this time— but the sharp black suit isn’t much better for her frazzled mind. Gone is the questionably colored cardigans and the ridiculous hats— and in its place is a tailored suit that fits him like he spent a fortune to ensure it would _perfectly._ His too-long hair looks as if he’s spent more time to make it seem as if he’s just crawled out of bed but in an artful way— and it _begs_ for her to run her fingers through it.

She’s standing there with her mouth open again— just as she’d done that first night they’d met. If she was able to find herself becoming attracted to Ben in his odd manner of dress— Ben in a _suit_ is leaving her in a heated puddle that makes speech difficult.

In this moment she’s having no difficulty at _all_ reconciling Ben with Kylo, because _this—_ this is Kylo Ren. Yet, still Ben somehow. It’s utterly nerve-wracking.

“Hi,” she says finally. Not the most eloquent greeting she’s ever given— but it sure as hell beats _chest._

He’s leaning with one hand on the door frame— his dark eyes peering down at her with an unreadable expression. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

“I didn’t.” She can’t stop staring at his suit. She knows why he’s wearing it, and that knowledge is still wriggling around in her brain unbidden.

“No, you didn’t. Can I ask why?”

She swallows thickly. “I lost track of time.”

“Did you.”

“I did.”

His jaw works subtly. “See, I was beginning to think you were going to try and avoid me again.”

“Avoid you?” She hopes she doesn’t look as nervous as she feels. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. You tell me, Rey.”

She casts her eyes to the floor. “I’m not avoiding you.”

Technically true, since it’s only been a day, but still tinged with a bit of untruth because she has _not_ been ready to face him yet.

She feels his fingers at her chin— cupping it to tilt up her gaze. “Then tell me you’re still coming over tomorrow night.”

“I—” Christ, it’s hard to think with his hands on her. His eyes are doing nothing to help the situation either. “Well, I—”

“I want to see you.” His thumb traces the line of her jaw, distracting her, and her eyes flutter a little. “Say you will.”

“Okay.” The word slips out of her mouth without her being able to stop it. Why is he so _distracting?_

His answering grin doesn’t help the knotted condition of her stomach— but she can’t help but return it shyly because he looks so _good_ like this, and she knows what that _mouth_ feels like, and she didn’t really stand a chance, really.

She doesn’t move away as he leans in— and when his lips press against hers, she even relaxes into it. She sighs softly when his hands drop to let his arms wrap around her, and the crisp fabric of his suit meets her palms as she lets them smooth across his chest and he just _smells_ so good and she can hardly _think_ with his mouth on her like this.

One large hand traces up her spine— causing her to shiver lightly before it finds the back of her head to cradle there. His tongue is light as it sneaks inside her mouth— not seeking something heavy but instead only tasting her for a moment, and she finds that this too, is dizzying.

When he finally pulls away— Rey is little more than mush because he’s just so _good_ at that.

“Tomorrow then,” he murmurs.

“Mhm.” Something about Ben makes her very ineloquent. “Tomorrow.”

He leaves one last soft press of a kiss at her mouth before he lets his hands fall away, and mostly she is just hoping she doesn’t have some sort of dreamy look on her face.

She watches him retreat down the hall towards the stairwell, trying and failing to _not_ notice just how much good that suit does for his rear view.

It is only after he’s long gone that she realizes she’s just standing in her doorway mooning after him like simpering teenager. More importantly— it is long after he’s gone that she remembers just who he _is._

She shuts her door quickly— sinking to the floor and leaning her head back against the wood, mentally ticking off everything she knows as she tries to make sense of it.

Ben Solo is Kylo Ren.

She has thoroughly made out with Ben Solo. (Never mind everything _else_ he’s done to her.)

She has always somewhat idolized Kylo Ren.

She used to hate Ben Solo.

She feels something very much not like hate for him now.

Tomorrow night she will go to his place and she and he (Ben Solo who is also _Kylo fucking Ren)_ might— she even _hopes_ they might—

Oh, boy.

Rey knows there is a high chance she won’t be getting any sleep tonight— and Ben’s fucking typewriter will have absolutely nothing to do with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m keeping this one relatively angst-free, because honestly it’s a nice break— so nothing in these dumb kid’s futures but more pretentious food habits and a lot of tantric sex. 🥰


	6. Let Me Keep You Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Food porn. That’s what this is. 😂

Rey isn’t sure what to expect when Ben texts her to inform her that he’s _cooking her dinner._ What sort of things might Ben _cook_ for her?

As someone who survives primarily on pizza and foods that come pre-packaged in plastic— she has to admit she’s just a little nervous.

Not to mention the blaring fact that she’s about to have _dinner_ with _Kylo Ren_ and that said person’s _fingers_ have been inside her.

She may not survive this date.

She takes a moment outside his door to calm herself, to decide how she will approach the knowledge that she knows exactly who he is and that he doesn’t seem too keen on telling her himself. When she finally works up the nerve to knock— she hears a _door’s open_ in his deep baritone, and she isn’t sure if it’s _more_ or _less_ nerve-wracking that he doesn’t come to the door to greet her.

She pushes inside with the confidence of a mouse in a cat’s den, and is immediately struck with the scent of some sort of buttery _something_ that makes her stomach growl.

He’s behind the bar across the room— stirring something with a long wooden spoon and giving her a sheepish grin from his place in the kitchen.

“Sorry,” he offers. “I have to keep stirring this.”

She’s trying to answer— but her eyes are glued to the way his button-down is rolled at the sleeves. At the way his forearms flex with every rotation of the long wooden spoon that seems _tiny_ in his too-large fingers. He runs his fingers through his hair to push it out of his eyes, and that too, distracts her. It’s so rare that she’s able to appreciate just how _thick_ and _shiny_ his hair is— normally covered by that ridiculous hat or God forbid, a _man bun_.

Now she’s thinking about how his hair feels when her fingers are tangled in it. Fuck. _Focus on the food._

She creeps across his hardwood in search of the source of that rich smell, pushing thoughts of Ben’s too-soft hair far out of her mind. “What are you making?”

“Saffron risotto with some mixed vegetables that I haven’t even washed yet. I’m running behind. I had a meeting run over… do you mind?”

He gestures to the vegetables in question that are resting on a cutting board at the end of the bar. She bites her lip with a half-hearted shrug. “I’m a terrible cook but I can do my best.”

“Surely, even you can dice.”

“Debatable,” she laughs, “but I will do my best.”

She washes her hands in his sink before she picks up the eggplant— haphazardly shoving it under the stream briefly.

Ben gives her an amused look. “You weren’t kidding.” He rests the spoon on a napkin— moving behind her to place his hand over hers as her breath catches. “You have to really get in there.”

He works her hand a little more roughly over the elongated vegetable, and she must admit that her mind is going straight into the gutter as he rests just behind her and his hand moves with hers.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, far too close to her ear. “A little harder. You won’t hurt it.”

In her dress— _why had she worn a dress—_ she can feel the brush of his jeans against her bare calves. She can feel the soft fabric of his sleeves against her bare upper arms. He’s just so _close. Too close._ Does he _have_ to stand so close to do this?

He abruptly steps away just as she’s about to lose her mind— returning to his pan and his stirring as if he hadn’t just flustered her beyond recognition. She pulls the _thoroughly clean_ eggplant from beneath the water— repeating the process with the bell peppers and the yellow squash, making sure to do it exactly as he had so as not to risk him crowding her again.

He instructs her dutifully on dicing next— and she does her best to follow his instructions. It is only when she gets stuck on the bell peppers that he clicks his tongue— abandoning his stirring to push her aside gently.

“You have to scoop the seeds out first.”

He cuts the green pepper in half— dipping two large fingers into the hollows to scoop out the seeds and discarding them on the cutting board. She hates that she’s mesmerized by this action, unable to shake the thoughts running through her head about the size of his fingers and what he can _do_ with them.

She clears her throat to try and offer up a conversational distraction. “So, saffron? Isn’t that a flower? How do you even cook it?”

“It’s… part of a flower. It’s more or less the inner petals.” He glances over, chuckling at her pinched expression. “In this case I just add the threads to the stock near the beginning. Not too difficult.”

“ _Petals?”_ She snorts. “How do you even collect just one part of a flower?”

“Painstakingly, I imagine.”

She shakes her head. “What a bunch of trouble.”

“It will be worth it,” he assures her. “What did I tell you about the best things?”

She purses her lips, refusing to answer that they _come hard_ as he insisted. She keeps to her chopping instead. “So you said you were late because of a meeting?”

He wipes his hands on a towel before returning to his pan. “Mhm.”

“You never told me what you did for a living. Who do you write for?” She allows a pregnant pause. “Anything I might have read?”

Ben stills for a moment— so briefly she might miss it if she weren’t looking. Then he goes back to his business as if nothing is out of the ordinary. “I doubt it.”

Rey tries to keep her expression level. “I read a lot. Maybe I’ve seen something.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s just a little mom and pop publication. Are you done with the dicing? I’m ready to add them to the risotto.”

She knows he’s changing the subject, and now he’s resorted to outright lying. Why doesn’t he want to tell her? Does he think he can keep it from her forever— or does he simply think that whatever this is between them won’t go far enough for it to matter?

The second possibility stings unexpectedly.

She moves aside to allow him to begin to scoop up the wonky pieces she’s painstakingly chopped for him, keeping quiet and not pressing the issue further. At least for now.

Because this issue isn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

* * *

“Okay,” she admits. “This is really good.”

He grins into his plate. “I told you, it’s well worth the effort.”

“Just like everything in your life,” she teases. “Right?”

He glances up to catch her gaze, giving her a suggestive look. “Right.”

She swallows around her fork as she busies herself with another bite. He’s steered the conversation for most of dinner so far— making sure to keep it focused around her. Though after working through her job, her friends, her painful lack of family— he doesn’t have much course to avoid her questions anymore. “So, what kind of things do you write for this mom and pop you mentioned?”

“Oh, you know… mostly just reviews.”

“Reviews.”

He nods nonchalantly. “The occasional observational piece.”

“Have you always wanted to write?”

His brow furrows in thought. “For as long as I can remember, I guess.”

“It’s good then,” she remarks quietly, “that you’re following your dream.”

He shrugs. “I guess so.”

“And who knows,” she continues. “Maybe someday you’ll be a famous writer that I read every week.”

She swears she catches him blushing, but he ducks his head to avoid her eyes. “I doubt it.”

“You never know.” She grins as she takes another bite. “Anything is possible.”

He lets his fork clatter against his now-empty plate, pushing from the table as he gestures to hers. “If you’re finished, I’ll take that.”

She pushes it towards him. “With a meal like that I’m surprised you didn’t make me dessert too.”

“I assumed you were bringing the dessert.”

She frowns. “What? You didn’t ask me to bring—”

She tapers off, blushing. _He means her._

He smirks as he takes their plates to the sink, depositing them there and running some water over them to rinse them. “As it so happens I _did_ make dessert earlier.”

“Of course you did,” she mutters, grateful for the change of subject. “I should have never doubted you.”

“Now you’re learning,” he grins.

She should scowl— so why is she _smiling?_

She leaves the table to wander into his living room, browsing his records on the shelf in search of one to play. Her fingers brush over the well-preserved sleeves that are lined up neatly, and when she spots one that catches her eye she pulls it gingerly from its resting place.

She’s grinning as she loads it on the player, and when the notes begin to sound, she almost misses him coming up behind her.

“Why doesn’t it surprise me that you chose ABBA?”

She bites back a grin as she turns to face him. “Why _does_ it surprise me that you _own_ ABBA?”

He heaves out a sigh. “Blame my mother. She’s obsessed. Fuck, I remember when she was still actively campaigning, she—”

“Campaigning?”

He clenches his lips together. “Oh… yeah. She’s in politics.”

“You never mentioned.”

“I don’t often. I’ve worked pretty hard to separate myself from her… at least in name. It’s hard living in her shadow.”

Rey nods in agreement. “I can imagine. I don’t blame you for wanting to keep it separate.”

She’s remembering his interview, and so much is beginning to make sense. She even thinks she understands what might have led him to use a pseudonym in the first place. A well-known mother might leave your work in constant scrutiny otherwise.

 _Just say it,_ she thinks. _Just tell him you know._

But what if that ruins everything?

Surely, there _must_ be a reason why he would keep it to himself. He _knows_ how much she admires his writing. She’d blathered on about it like an _idiot,_ right here in this room.

She notices a jar in his hand then. “What’s that?”

“Oh.” He holds it up in offering. “Dessert.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Peaches?”

“Bourbon peaches. Much better.”

“I’ve never had them.”

He grins. “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

She rolls her eyes as he opens the jar, brandishing a spoon he’d been holding and dipping it inside to scoop out a perfectly halved peach that smells of the fruit and some sweetened vanilla aroma that she suspects is the bourbon.

He holds out the spoon in offering, silently urging that she open her mouth. She does so with only a bit of caution— allowing him to place the sticky fruit on her tongue as she chews slowly.

“Wow.”

He beams. “Good, right?”

“Unbelievably good.” She slides the bits of fruit around her tongue to savor it. “You really made these?”

“It’s not too hard. I stopped by the farmer’s market yesterday and grabbed some before my work thing.”

“There’s a farmer’s market around here?”

He nods. “I visit fairly often. I don’t like to support the big grocery chains. They’re terrible for the farmers. Besides, the vendors there practice only all-organic pesticide practices.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask how you know that.”

“I asked, of course,” he tells her as if it’s nothing.

“Of course you did,” she sighs.

She’s distracted as he digs out a peach half for himself— bringing the spoon to his lips and letting his tongue flick out to lap up the juice in the hollowed center. Her eyes widen at the sight of this— trying not to think of how suggestive this action is. How _wicked._

He must notice her expression, because she swears his effort becomes a little more deliberate. That his tongue becomes determined to divest the peach of every drop of sticky nectar before he finally drops it into his mouth to chew.

“The juice is the best part,” he says quietly.

“Is it?”

“Mhm.” He licks away an escaped droplet at the corner of his mouth, and her eyes follow the movement. “Do you want more?”

She swallows, noticing how dark his eyes have become, and she wonders if he’s still talking about the peaches. She could lean in and kiss him right now, if she wanted to. Even senses that he might be asking for it, in so many words. She feels herself leaning _just a fraction—_ eyes on his mouth and wondering if he’ll taste _sweet_ and she—

She remembers everything just in time to collect her senses.

She can’t let herself get caught up in him— not without knowing why he would lie to her. She doesn’t want to find out she’s just some conquest he never plans to see again.

She turns away— shuffling to the couch instead and plopping down onto it.

He follows after, looking a little confused as he takes the seat next to her. “Is something wrong?”

“You know— it’s funny. Kylo Ren’s mother is a senator.”

She watches as he goes deathly still. “Is that so.”

“It is. Do you know how I know?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t.”

“There was an interview yesterday on NPR. Do you ever listen in?”

He swallows. “Not really.”

She stares back at him— realizing he _still_ isn’t going to come clean of his own accord. She huffs as she throws her arms up. “Oh, come on. Really? We’re going to do this? I _know,_ Ben.”

He sets the glass jar and the spoon down on his end table— blowing out a breath. “I didn’t think you would catch the interview.”

“I wouldn’t, if it hadn’t been for my friend Rose.”

He closes his eyes. “I can explain.”

“I would love that. Was this a weird game? Did you see me with a _Time_ and think it might be fun? Did you not want me to know so I wouldn’t stalk you after you fucked me and never called?”

“What?” His brows knits into an expression of actual distaste. “No. _No._ None of that. Jesus, Rey. I’m not a monster.”

She feels slightly chastised, letting her frustration get the best of her, and she lowers her voice. “Then why would you not just tell me? You let me sit there and accuse you of not understanding _your own_ column.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I know, and I’m sorry. I know I should have corrected you then.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I just—” He makes some frustrated sound. “Fuck, Rey. You sounded like you _worshipped_ Kylo. You had him built up to be some brilliant mind and I just— that’s not me. How can I live up to that? I guess—” He blows out a breath through his nostrils. “I guess I was afraid you’d be disappointed. When you found out.”

She’s a little taken aback by his admission— thrown for a loop that he would care so much what she thinks of him. He thought she would be disappointed to find out he and Kylo were the same person?

She feels guilt then. She hasn’t exactly done much to help discourage such a notion. Always arguing. Always criticizing. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to tell her.

She’s _not_ disappointed, she realizes. That’s the most surprising part. Sure, he’s a little ridiculous and sometimes exasperating but—

He’s also smart, and funny (even if she hates to admit it). He knows what he wants, and he doesn’t care what anyone thinks about it. She might even admire him for it, if she could push aside the mental eye-roll that she’s always keeping in check. She’s not disappointed in the slightest, and the one who is most surprised might be _her._

“I’m not,” she says finally, a little breathier than she’d intended to. “Disappointed.”

He glances over at her with equal surprise. “You’re not?

“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m not.”

He turns inward— eyes flicking from her own to her mouth as he chews at his lip thoughtfully. He presses a little closer to her as one hand braces against the cushions while the other follows— leaning into her with purpose.

She feels every second tick by as if weighted against her skin, and then his mouth touches hers and he just _keeps_ going as she falls to the couch to let him cover her. His tongue traces over her lower lip— opening to allow him to press inside as he spreads the sweetened taste of peaches and bourbon into her mouth.

His weight over her should be too much— but the pressure of it only makes her attempt to pull him closer. It’s warm and heady and _wonderful—_ and her hands rove over his shoulders to find his hair, tangling in the strands there to tug lightly.

The skirt of her dress rucks up around her thighs, and she can feel the heavy weight of his cock there. He groans as his hand finds her hip to pull her closer, thrusting against her lightly as his tongue moves against hers greedily.

Even when he breaks the kiss he’s still seeking more— lips trailing over her jaw to mouth at her throat, and she arches her neck to allow him better access. She isn’t sure how much time passes before he pulls away completely— hovering to stare down at her with dark eyes.

He smiles wide then, and she knows he’s about to say something that will make her want to hit him. “You know— I really _couldn’t_ believe it when you suggested I might not understand my own column.”

She slaps at his arm even as a laugh tumbles out of her. “Shut up.”

“So—” He lowers to press another slow kiss at her mouth. “— _was_ Kylo Ren everything you thought he’d be?”

She grins against his lips. “He’s a bit of a shit actually.”

“You know,” he tells her as his lips find her cheek. “I can’t help but notice that hardly sounds like a complaint.”

She huffs out another laugh. “I’m just as surprised as you are.” He begins to trace the line of her jaw— leaving a hot trail up to her ear before his teeth find the lobe there to nibble. Her eyes flutter closed as she emits a breathy, “Will you show me your typewriter?”

He pulls away abruptly, looking confused for a moment before he seems to remember where he keeps it. His eyes turn a little darker then, his mouth turning up at the corners coyly. “Mm. I thought you’d never ask.”

To be honest, neither did she.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a little distracted by Barbarian Kylo but I am currently working on chapter 7 right now so not a long wait! ❤️


	7. I’m The Only One Of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this was really hard (that’s what she said) for some reason? At this point I just hope it’s hot. 😂❤️

She thinks he’ll take her to his bedroom— she’s only been thinking about the damned room since the night she found out it was just on the other side of hers. So when she tries to tug him from the couch only to be pulled back into his lap— she finds herself surprised.

“What are you doing?”

“I really like you in a dress.” His fingers curl into her skirt— inching it higher as he leans in to brush his lips against hers. “It makes things easier.”

Her eyes flutter closed as his hands grip the soft flesh of her upper thighs. “Don’t you want to—” His fingers ghost over her belly as he glides the dress higher, and she shivers as cool air meets her skin. “ _Ben_.”

“I want to be right here,” he says evenly. “For now.”

He never stops his task of easing her dress upwards— creeping it higher and higher and quietly instructing her to raises her arms so he can pull it over her head.

“Another bit of advice you followed?” His eyes rake over her bare breasts, gaze heated and teeth working at the softness of his lower lip. “Do you remember why I suggested it?”

It’s impossible not to squirm. It’s also impossible to be _annoyed_ by the memory of Ben implying her tits were small enough to forego a bra. Even if she must admit, albeit begrudgingly, that he’s right.

He lets a hand glide over her belly— not _quite_ touching but close enough that she feels the warmth of his fingertips all the same.

“Rey.” His fingers trace over the points of her nipples— still not touching but so close she can practically _feel_ them anyway. It’s driving her a bit mad. “Do you remember?”

“Ben.” It’s not a whine, not yet, but it’s not her normal voice. Not even close. “You said you would _touch_ me.”

“Always in a hurry, Rey,” he murmurs. “I told you. You should learn to savor things.” A barely-there brush of his knuckle just underneath her breast causes her to shiver. “This is something I definitely want to savor.”

His fingers tighten around her ribs just under her breasts— his thumbs rubbing slow circles into the skin there and yet still not touching where she needs him most. She isn’t sure what sort of game he’s playing, but it’s nearly enough to reduce her to begging.

“Ben. What are you—”

“You know, I could almost see these that first night you came pounding on my door.”

Her breath catches when he finally, _finally_ takes a nipple to roll it between his fingers. “What?”

“I could. Even when you were being a little annoying I was still thinking I might want to know what they tasted like.”

She pushes up on his arms in indignance then. “Excuse me?” Her voice is too breathless. Too evident of how affected she is by whatever madness he’s inflicting on her. “I annoyed _you?”_

“Mhm.” He pulls her back to him effortlessly. “But still.”

A large hand between her shoulder blades forces her to bend, and then his tongue flattens over one hardened bud before he sucks the entire thing into his mouth. He pushes harder against her spine— arching her further as he swirls his tongue around the sensitive peak in slow strokes.

He pulls away with a soft _pop—_ blowing slightly against it as she jolts in surprise. “ _Ben.”_

“Don’t you think this is better?” He flicks his tongue lazily against her nipple before sucking it into his mouth for one long pull just to release it again. “Taking my time?”

“I don’t— I’m not—”

“Because I could give you fast too.” He mouths at the soft swell just beneath her breast, scraping his teeth there. “I could take you to my bed and fuck an impression of you right into my mattress.” Her lip might bleed with the way she’s biting it so hard. “But there’s so much I would _miss.”_

He brushes his nose back and forth along her sternum, holding her close. She can feel him hard and straining against the denim of his jeans, and she finds herself at a loss as to which option she prefers. On the one hand, being fucked into a mattress sounds heavenly, but _this—_ whatever _this_ is— _this_ threatens to make her lose her goddamned mind.

He doesn’t really give her the freedom to choose.

His lips trace her collarbone— his fingers curling around her hips as he rolls her against his clothed cock in a languid motion. He continues on a slow path over her throat, holding her so close that the buttons of his shirt bite into her breasts.

“You’re still, ah— very dressed.”

“I am,” he kisses into her skin. “Would you like to do something about that?”

He pulls back for only a second— hands still resting against her hips as he waits in silent invitation. She reaches for his buttons with trembling fingers, working each through the loops to bare inch after inch of pale skin that gives her a strange urge to taste him.

He remains relaxed against the couch as she pushes his button down apart— leaning to give in to her more base urges and press her lips to his chest. He makes some rumbling sound, and there is a slight flex to his grip that lets her know he’s affected.

She eases his shirt off as she indulges in just _looking—_ something that she hasn’t really allowed herself in their frantic past experiences. He’s just so much _larger_ than she is. She runs her hands over the wide expanse of his chest— continuing downward to brush her fingertips over his abdomen as he breathes deep.

When her fingers reach the button of his jeans— one large hand moves to enclose over her wrists and pull them away.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “I’m not done with you.” She watches with wide eyes as he reaches towards the end table— dipping two fingers into the open jar of peaches and bringing them back to her mouth. “Open.”

She parts her lips as he pushes his fingers inside— pressing them against her tongue and quietly urging her to suck them clean. Her eyes close as the heady flavor of bourbon and peaches explodes in her mouth, and she can’t help but give a content hum before he pulls his fingers away to dip them all over again.

“I think I said you’d be bringing dessert.”

She gasps in surprise when he paints a nipple with the sticky juice from the jar—  trailing a path from one taut bud across her chest to its twin and coating them thoroughly.

She knows what’s coming— of _course_ she does— but she cries out in surprise all the same when his hot mouth encloses over a nipple to suck it clean. Gone is the lazy pace from before— sucking roughly into her skin and over her breastbone to clean away every bit of the juice he’s painted on her.

He lingers at the last bit of sticky sweet liquid— closing his eyes and humming contentedly as he nearly pulls the entire mound into his mouth. His hand slips into the back of her underwear to roughly squeeze at her ass— his grip softening after a moment only to repeat the same tight squeeze seconds later.

“There is more of you I’d like to taste,” he kisses into her skin. “But I don’t think I can do that properly here.”

Then he’s lifting her— standing in one swift motion to crush her to his chest. One large hand traces the curve of her spine before fingers tangle in her hair and lips find hers to taste and he carries her as if it’s _effortless—_ moving so quickly she hardly has time to take in the neat surroundings of his bedroom before he spreads her out over his mattress.

He crawls over her as his arms cage her in— dark eyes taking over her body and leaving her flushed and needy.

“You know,” he starts, “when you left me alone on that balcony—” His hand presses to her sternum before smoothing upwards between her breasts. “—I couldn’t help but taste you then.” That same hand covers her throat as a thumb skirts over her chin to brush along her mouth. “Even from my fingers it drove me crazy.” His thumb dips into her mouth, and she can’t help the way she sucks at it softly, enjoying the way his lips part in surprise and his eyes darken even further. “I touched myself that night with the taste of your cunt still on my tongue,” he admits breathlessly, “and since then I haven’t stopped wanting more.”

His slick thumb draws from her mouth, and as he leans in to give her his tongue instead— she can feel his hand settling between her hips as that same thumb dips beneath her underwear to seek out her clit. He rolls the thick digit against the swollen bud in a lazy pattern— eliciting a moan from her that he swallows with his kiss.

He breaks away to hover over her— never breaking her gaze as he slowly withdraws his hand, bringing his thumb to his mouth to suck it clean.

“Take off your underwear.”

It’s hardly a request—  eyes hooded as he lifts away from her body to kneel over her. She reaches for them with shaking hands— so impossibly turned on it feels like every nerve ending is alight with some buzzing energy that she can feel straight down to her core.

“Slower,” he murmurs, gaze drifting between her thighs as he watches her efforts. “Savor, remember?”

She can feel how wet she is between her legs— and yet her embarrassment crumbles away as his throat bobs and chest heaves and she can _see_ the way his cock strains against the denim of his jeans as she works agonizingly slow to divest herself of her now-drenched underwear.

Her nerves get the better of her when he seems content to just _look_ at her— the soft light from a solitary lamp in the corner casting a warm glow over her naked body and leaving nothing to the imagination.

Finally he reaches to smooth a hand over her hip— curling it over her thigh to graze the back of his nails against the soft skin just between them. “It should be… a fucking _crime—_ for you to look like this,” he rasps.

He curls over her to mouth at her ribs, and as his hair falls over his forehead to tickle her skin— she can’t help but think he looks pretty criminal like this as well. Even if she can’t bring herself to admit it.

He imprints a pattern of heavy kisses over her belly and across her waist and his hands urge her thighs apart just as his tongue teases at the little hollow below her hip bone, and when his fingers tease at her slit so lightly they barely touch— the arch of her back and the sound of her gasp are involuntarily reactions.

He drags two fingers up the seam of her— allowing them to part so that he might spread her open as he rubs just around where she needs him. He follows the same pattern as he descends, teasing around her clit to press and to rub but _avoiding_ the throbbing little nub that begs for his attention.

“ _Ben.”_

His teeth nip below her navel— still exploring. “Hm?”

“Please— _please,_ just— I need you to—”

“I’ll get there.” His tongue traces just above her pubic bone. “Eventually.”

“ _Ben,”_ she grits out. “ _Please.”_

She can see him resting just between her hips— smirking up at her as his index finger draws little circles around her clit. “I like the idea of you being desperate,” he tells her quietly. “I think I’d like you to need it.”

She fucking _feels_ desperate.

She’s never needed _anything_ as much as she needs him to fucking touch her right now.

“ _Please,”_ she says airily. “Please, just—”

“Shh,” he soothes. “I’ve got you. I want my mouth on you just as much, after all.”

He moves her with ease— shifting her so that he rests between her thighs— so close she can feel the warmth of his breath against her cunt. She cries out a little when she feels his thumbs press apart her labia— spreading her wide as she pushes up on her elbows to protest. It feels too open, too _exposed—_ but when she catches sight of him— dark eyes _hungry_ and heavy-lidded, her protests die on her tongue.

The first swipe of his tongue is slow. Just like everything else. She can’t help but watch— because his eyes never leave hers. Her mouth remains parted as she inhales a slow, deep breath, and then he’s repeating the action just as slowly before ending with a deep pull of his lips around her clit. She gasps at this— pulling her lip between her teeth as she remains enraptured by what he’s doing to her.

He hums against her, content, like what he’s doing to her brings _him_ pleasure. “You are”— he flicks his tongue against her clit lightly—“ _so much sweeter”—_ another long pull of his lips there as she expels a low moan—“than I remember.”

“ _Oh fuck, Ben.”_

He sucks at her clit to pull rapid draws from her— releasing her after several seconds only to lap there with one long stroke.

He dips his head to tease her entrance— tongue pushing inside her as deep as he can manage as his nose rubs against her clit with every subtle motion of his head. Then a heavy pass of his tongue through her folds, and he’s wrapping his lips around her clit and there is _nothing_ teasing about the way he sucks against it.

He’s kept her so on edge for so long that she feels her climax lingering _just there_ and her fingers find his hair of their own accord and she’s _tugging_ so hard she could possibly be hurting him, but his hands just grip her _tighter_ and his lips just suck at her _harder_ and she’s gasping with it— _pleading_ even, because _oh_ , that feels— that feels—

 _“Right there,”_ she whines as a jolt passes through her. “ _Please, oh please, don’t stop— please, don’t— ah—”_

Her back falls to the bed as her hips tilt into his mouth and he’s still just _going_ even as she trembles and her thighs clamp around his ears too tight for comfort. His tongue begins a series of heavy passes over her clit before he devolves into a rapid flicking back and forth and _every movement_ from his heated tongue sends another tremor up her spine.

She finally has to tug him away, and he crawls over her lazily— kissing a wet path up her stomach and over her ribs and then a nip at her breast before he finally, _finally_ finds her mouth.

She can taste herself on his tongue. She can _feel_ herself coating his chin. It should be too much— perhaps it _is—_ but he feels so heavy and warm and her limbs are practically like jello and she can _feel_ his cock still straining in his jeans against her stomach and she needs more of this. More of _him._

She reaches for his zipper— fingers tripping over the catch there as they still shake with an anxious energy— before finally his hands bat her aside to take over the task himself. He rises up to his knees, and Rey is held captive to the slow tug of his zipper and the slow shucking of his jeans. In his boxer briefs it is impossible not to notice just how very _large_ he is— the outline of his cock pressed tight against the fabric— and heat crawls up her neck as she imagines him pushing into her.

She rubs her thighs together a little tighter in anticipation.

He’s just reaching for the band of his briefs to rid himself of those too, when she pushes upwards— moving to sit as she places her hands on his hips. She meets his gaze, swallowing thickly as her fingers curl into the elastic band.

“Let me.”

He nods, watching as she peels the tight fabric away to tug it down his thighs and let his cock spring free. When there is finally nothing between them— she can’t help but run her palm up the underside of his length, trying and failing to close her fingers all the way around him as she gives him a light stroke back down to the base.

Of _course_ someone as maddeningly cocky as him would be, well— _maddeningly cocky._ But it’s hard to focus on the injustice of this at the moment. (Is it _really_ an injustice for her, though?) She’s never actually been interested in the equipment— but Ben is just… it’s nearly impossible. How very _proportionate_ he is. She shudders to think what he might say if she told him so.

She can’t stop thinking about what he would feel like inside her. Just him. It’s something she’s never wanted before but _looking_ at him like this—

She gives another fascinated stroke of the velvety hardness of his cock as she considers.

His breath is shaky as he expels it, watching her touch and explore him, and his eyes flutter for a moment before drifting back open to lock with hers.

“Are you trying to beat me at my own game here?” His voice sounds off. Lacking the earlier authority. Now he sounds nearly as breathless as she does. “Because, I—”

“I want you to fuck me, Ben.”

She might be nearly as surprised by the abruptness as he is. She lets her thumb drag upwards just under the head of his cock before she presses into the slit there.

He groans as his body pitches forward just a fraction. “ _Rey.”_ He reaches for her hand to cover it, to force her to _squeeze_ just a little harder. “In my drawer,” he chokes out, “I have—”

“No,” she rasps. “Ben. I want you to _fuck_ me. Just you.”

She finds she likes the way his eyes widen. She likes the breathless rising and falling of his chest. She leans forward to swipe her tongue beneath the head of his cock.

His eyes are shut now, and his mouth is parted as his fingers brush along her jaw. As they tangle in her hair. “Are you— _fuck, Rey—_ are you s—”

She pulls away before he can finish. “I’m sure.”

There’s no way that someone who is particular about every detail in his life down to his _produce_ isn’t sexually healthy, and damnit, if she can’t enjoy her annoyingly good-looking neighbor like this, then what is her birth control even for?

She reaches for his hips to tug, and he moves to settle over her as if to pin her beneath him— but Rey has other plans. She shifts to urge him to roll to his back— moving to straddle his hips as his hands settle at hers. She finds this is easier, having some semblance of control of the situation. She feels a little less like she’s going insane.

He’s still looking up at her as if he can’t form words— and when she reaches for his cock, settling over him, _easing down_ onto him— she thinks Ben might stop _breathing_ altogether.

She has to close her eyes as she lets him slip inside. It’s nearly a _chore—_ his cock filling her in a way that steals _her_ breath. She braces herself with her hands against his abdomen as she takes inch after inch of him inside. She actually _gasps_ when she’s full of him, rooted so deep there is simply nowhere else for him to go, and if she shifts _only a little—_ the heavy drag of his cock inside her sends a shooting pleasure down her spine that makes her toes curl with the headiness of it.

A thin sheen of sweat coats his chest, flushed red with the way he tenses, and she can feel the bite of his fingernails against the softness of her waist.

“ _Rey.”_ There’s a whine to his voice now, and the desperation there— she finds she likes this too. So very different than how they started. “Can I— I need you to— _fuck, just—”_

He shifts as if to move inside her, just a slight pitch of his hips as he grits his teeth, but the way she rolls against him— the way she _clenches_ around him prevents him from doing much and Ben—

Ben actually _does_ whine then.

She undulates slowly, rocking against him at a pace that drives her crazy, but this time she enjoys the torture of it.

If the look on Ben’s face is any indication— she’s not alone.

His head tilts back as his eyes close, her name barely a breath as it leaves his mouth. “ _Rey.”_

“Didn’t you want me to savor, Ben?” She lets her hand splay between his hip bones— pressing to steady herself as she rides him languidly. “Isn’t this better? When I take my time?”

“I— _fuck,_ Rey, I—” He breaks off in a moan as she squeezes tight— so full of him that she can feel each little twitch inside.

“Because I could give you fast too,” she parrots. “I could fuck an impression of you right into this mattress.” She smooths her palm up his abdomen as it tenses— every muscle going tighter as he sucks in a sharp breath. “But there’s so much I would _miss.”_

He surprises her when he jolts upwards— arms wrapping around her to sit upright with her still very much rooted in his lap. His mouth crashes over hers roughly— tongue pushing inside to tangle with hers as his hands begin to roll her against him at a punishing pace.

His palm settles over her ass to _grip_ while the other tangles in her hair— angling her neck so that she is left helpless to his kiss. His thrusts are _relentless_ now. Gone is the teasing and the buildup and she can hardly _breathe_ for the way he moves to lift her as if she is _nothing_ only to plummet her back down onto his cock again and again and _again._

Even when he breaks away, his lips never stop moving— pressing into her jaw and her throat and settling to suck at her pulse point messily as a resonating hum sounds in his chest.

She can feel it building— seeping through her limbs like a wound coil that grows tighter and _tighter_ until she is whimpering with it and he’s still _going_ and she just needs a _little more._

“Ben. _Ben. Fuck, Ben— right there— oh—”_

He nips at the soft skin of her throat. “Come. Fucking _come,_ Rey.” He drifts higher to suck at the sensitive lobe of her ear. “I want to feel it. Wanna feel this perfect little cunt come all over me.”

“ _God,_ Ben.”

“Come on,” he coaxes, voice thick and tight. “You’re so close. So _tight_ and _wet._ ” His tongue traces the shell of her ear as she shivers. “I want you wetter. I want to feel you _everywhere.”_

He grinds her against his lap— giving her _just_ the right amount of friction that causes her to cry out— and then she’s lost to the burst of pressure that floods her limbs to rock through her. She shakes with it— her entire body trembling even as she feels him swell, hears him _groan._

When a moan reverberates against her neck— she knows he’s lost too.

She feels the warmth deep inside— hot and wet and _so messy—_ his hands so tight on her skin she wonders if there might be a mark there tomorrow.

She sort of hopes there will be.

He’s still _kissing_ her. His lips move over her skin like second nature— tasting everything he can reach.

He doesn’t pull out of her when he catches his breath— just gently falls to his back— pulling her with him so that she is draped over his front.

For a moment she is content to just lay like that— cheek resting against the now-slick expanse of his chest as she listens to the deep thudding of his heartbeat.

She closes her eyes when his fingers begin to card through her hair— and even with the sticky mess between them or the slightly awkward twitch of his cock still inside— she thinks to herself that this, just _this—_ is sort of nice.

After a time she shifts with the intention to let him slip out of her— but his hand settles at the base of her spine to prevent her efforts. “Stay,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”

She feels the blush creeping up her neck at the intimacy of it, but it slips away when his fingers resume their mission of combing through the tangled mass of her hair. She lets her eyes drift closed again— allowing the slowing _thump_ of his heart to calm her.

He’s so warm and so _wide_ and everything is so _comforting—_ the thick blanket of sleep actually sneaks up on her.

It might be the first time Ben has actually _put_ her to sleep rather than keep her up.

She hopes she remembers to tell him when she wakes up.

* * *

_Clack Clack Clack Ding!_

Rey cracks open an eye— thinking she must be having a nightmare.

Surely he wouldn’t— _surely_ Ben didn’t leave her naked in his bed to—

She cracks open an eye to see the wide expanse of his bare back hunched over a desk across the room, a lamp casting a soft glow over an ancient monstrosity that makes her scowl.

She raises up, wrapping the sheet around herself. Ben glances up at her as she pads up behind him— grinning as she leans to kiss him. “Tell me this thing didn’t wake me up.”

His smile widens against her mouth. “You never did get to see it.”

She sighs as she leans back to eye the ridiculous thing that has been driving her insane for weeks. “I thought it would be bigger.”

“Did you now.” He smirks as he rubs at his chest. “Because I don’t think the size of it was a problem.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“You don’t… right?” His expression is less confident than before, and she feels some strange squeezing sensation in her chest.

“No,” she says softly. “I don’t.”

His smile is brilliant— and she thinks to herself that she might be in real trouble. If the feelings that smile instill are any indication.

She urges him to lean back against the chair as she moves to straddle his lap— looping her arms around his neck as the sheet slips free. His hands rest against her waist as he pulls her in for another kiss that is lazy and warm. Rey thinks to herself that maybe savoring isn’t so bad.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” he murmurs. “I was… feeling a little inspired.”

She wonders if a part of her will always get a little giddy when she thinks of _inspiring_ Kylo Ren.

“Mm.” She ducks her head to trace his jaw with her mouth. “Well, since I’m up… maybe I could inspire you a little more.”

He chuckles softly. “Anything to get me off the typewriter?”

“Yes.” A lingering kiss just under his jaw. “That was the grand master plan here.”

He lets out a breathy sigh. “It was… a very good plan.”

“I thought so.”

His fingers tighten their grip around her hips when her tongue swipes at his throat. “I might even suggest you enact this plan… every night. Just to be sure.”

She grins as she pulls away— taking in his playful expression and wondering how she ever thought she might hate him.

This thing she feels now… it’s definitely not hate.

She pretends to sigh resignedly. “If I _have_ to.”

He lifts her easily to carry her back to bed, and Rey’s thoughts are anywhere but her outdated archenemy.

Ben would go on to keep her up for _several_ nights after that one— but the typewriter is not the cause of a single one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only an epilogue left! ❤️


	8. Baby, That’s The Fun Of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t expect to get a little wistful saying goodbye to these two — but I’m sad to see them go! (Let’s be honest, I’m always sad to say goodbye. 😂)
> 
> Also, it’s minor, but check the updated tags!

* * *

“Look at them,” Poe marvels. “It’s like they’re speaking their own language.”

Rey peers out across the room to find Finn gushing over the painting that hangs on their living room wall, Ben listening intently as he offers quiet feedback.

“Maybe you should invite Ben over to your place for a playdate,” she muses, taking a sip of her water.

“We brought wine you know,” Poe points out, eyeing her glass. “It’s one of the only advantages of being in love with a complete know it all — Finn _knows_ wine.”

Rey rolls her eyes. “Trust me, I know _exactly_ what you mean, but I just don’t feel like drinking tonight.” Poe gives her a curious look, but thankfully says nothing. She quickly changes the subject. “So how is the adoption process going?”

Poe sighs. “It’s slow going — but it’s going, at least. Honestly, I’m happy to drag out the process for now. Maybe if I have more time, I can convince my husband why it is terribly cruel to name an unsuspecting infant after a famous renaissance painter.”

She can’t help but laugh at Poe’s weary expression, and she can sense this has been an ongoing _discussion_ between he and Finn. 

“As if you would love them any less.”

“Yes, _yes,”_ he groans. “I know. I _know —_ but at this rate, there’s an eighty percent chance our child will share the name of a ninja turtle.”

She grimaces. “Okay. I see your point.”

“ _Exactly.”_ He heaves out a sigh. “Anyway, are you both all settled in here? Are you enjoying the bigger apartment?”

“It’s nice having an extra bedroom to stow away that clackety behemoth of his — maybe I’ll finally get some sleep.”

“Oh, so you were getting sleep before?”

He says this with a coy grin, and Rey feels a blush creep up her neck as she averts her eyes with a bashful smile of her own. She gives a noncommittal shrug, taking another sip of her water. “Well, at least a little more. He’s been working so hard.”

“That’s right, his book is releasing soon, right?”

She nods. “Next week. He’s been a nervous wreck about it.”

“Has he let you read any of it?”

“A little. It’s brilliant.”

Poe grins. “Nearly a year later, and still fangirling.”

“When you find yourself in a position where you’re regularly sleeping with Stephen King — then we’ll talk.”

“Honestly, now I’m just trying to picture what sex with Stephen King would be like,” Poe muses. “Do you think he would just start… _chanting_ or something when he orgasms?”

Rey groans. “I’m… _very_ sorry that I brought this up.”

She shakes her head as she scans the room, and she notices that Ben is now standing alone. Finn has moved off to enthrall another small group of people, and her poor tree of a fiancé is lurking awkwardly in a corner, standing out like a sore thumb in the plain red cardigan he’d _insisted_ was “perfectly festive enough” for a Christmas party. 

For a minute, she’s content to just watch him, happy that she’d at least been able to talk him out of any sort of head accessories, his dark hair pushed away from his face in that way she likes. 

It’s still a little hard to believe she thought she hated him once — given how disgustingly in love with him that she is now. 

Even if he still drives her a little crazy sometimes.

She watches him quietly sneak out of the room, ducking through the balcony door as he searches for a quiet moment.  

She makes a quick decision as she wanders down to the hall closet to pull out a thin, wrapped gift, and then she stealthily sneaks past the small crowd of their guests as she exits through the door to join him. 

He’s leaning over the balcony rails, and he gives her a grin that always makes her stomach flop as he extends a hand in invitation. She places the other thing she’d grabbed on her way out there instead, still holding the main surprise behind her back. 

He eyes the tiny bit of mistletoe curiously. “I think you’re supposed to hang this.”

“Well, you’re the size of a Clydesdale standing up, so I thought you could just hold it for me.”

He laughs as he holds it over their heads, and she presses up on her toes to leave a lingering kiss at his mouth. 

She’s still smiling as she pulls away. “Are you having _any_ fun at all?”

He places the mistletoe on the balcony ledge, giving her a halfhearted shrug. “It’s… a lot of people:”

“It won’t kill you to socialize,” she laughs.

“You absolutely cannot prove that.”

She rolls her eyes. “Would a present cheer you up?”

He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Is it anything like the last present you gave me on a balcony?”

She smacks his chest, but he just catches her hand, rubbing his thumb over the stone in her engagement ring as he often does before pulling her palm to his mouth to press his lips there.

“It’s an _actual_ present.”

“I would argue that your cunt _is_ an actual present.”

“ _Ben_.”

He grins into her palm. “Yes. I’d like my present.”

She’s a little nervous now, this not being how she’d planned to do this — but ultimately just too anxious to keep it to herself any longer. She slowly pulls the wrapped square from behind her back, placing it in his now waiting hands as he studies it.

“Is this a vinyl?”

She shrugs, biting back a grin. “Maybe.”

He raises an eyebrow, tearing away the paper before he barks out a laugh at the sleeve in his hand. “You’re kidding.”

Her smile widens. “Limited edition.”

He turns over the vinyl cover for ME!, sighing. “They’ll put anything on vinyl now.”

“You shut your mouth.” 

He chuckles softly. “Are you issuing payback for all the writing I’ve been doing? Trying to keep me up again?”

“Oh, I definitely think what’s in there will keep you up.”

He makes a face at her odd choice of words. “What?”

“Maybe you should check out the vinyl inside.”

“Why would I —?”

She’s wringing her hands a little now. “Just look.”

He pulls the vinyl from the sleeve gingerly, and she might laugh that he even treats _this_ one with caution — but then he notices the little black and white picture taped to the center, and his mouth falls open as his eyes snap up to hers.

“Is this —?”

She nods. “Six weeks.”

“How did this even —”

“Must be all of the superfoods you insist on eating.”

His mouth is hanging open, and he’s just _staring_ down at the grainy shape that hardly even _looks_ like a baby, and for a moment she’s afraid he’s displeased. But then his face splits into a grin, and he sets the record on the patio table, and his arms are around her in an instant as he pulls her tight against him.

“I love you.”

Her hands move to grip the soft fabric of his cardigan, her eyes a little wet and surely dampening the fabric over his chest. “I love you, too.”

His voice wavers a little as he chokes out, “Does this make me a Swiftie?”

She presses her face deeper into his chest to hide the way she’s beaming like idiot. “Taylor _is_ a unisex name.”

His laugh is watery. “Call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to.”

She leans back with an incredulous look. “Did you just —?”

He grins wide before he ducks to kiss her, and her toes curl as her eyes close and she tucks away her interrogation of his recent music habits for a little later. Right now she sort of wishes there weren’t a room of people on the other side of the patio door. 

He presses one last heavy kiss at her lips as his hand settles over her stomach, looking down between them with an awestruck expression. “Is it normal that I’m so turned on by this?”

“Honestly,” she laughs, “since it’s _you —_ I’d be a little worried if you weren’t.”

“Fair,” he grins. “So can we kick everyone out now?”

“ _No,”_ she chides, failing to mention that she’d sort of been entertaining the same thing. “It’s only eight.”

“Think they’d notice if you disappeared for… ten minutes?”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Only ten minutes? What happened to _savoring?”_

“Later,” he murmurs. “Right now I need to fuck my fiancé.”

She grins despite herself as she wraps her arms around his neck. “Well, it _is_ Christmas.”

His lips find her jaw, and she’s already breathless, and she knows without a doubt she’ll be sneaking away from her own party to let him do whatever he wants to her in as little time as he’s able. His lips brush along her throat, searing a kiss there. “Merry fucking Christmas to me.”

It’s not how she’d thought things would go, and she certainly hadn’t _planned_ to marry, let alone _procreate_ with the most endearingly pretentious human she’s ever met — but she wouldn’t change it. Not a single bit of it. Because she knows… without a doubt.

She’ll never find another like him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for following along! You guys are the actual best. As always:  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kylotrashforever)!  
> I made a [Twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/KTF_Reylo), come follow me!


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